


The Ethical Limit of Coffee

by ScribeofArda



Series: lay down my heavy load [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, And keeps going back, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, But by god I'm going to make you work for it, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gaby and Illya are bffs, Gaby is endlessly amused, Has been described as 'the triple espresso shot of coffee shop AUs', Hurt/Comfort, In which Illya goes to the coffee shop across from UNCLE, M/M, Meets the obnoxious owner (Solo), Mutual Pining, Only technically a coffee shop AU in that it is mostly set in a coffee shop, Otherwise does not come close in terms of expected fluff content, Pining, The boys are idiots but we know this already, coffee shop AU, so you have been warned, yep you read that right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 71,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24611005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeofArda/pseuds/ScribeofArda
Summary: The coffee machine is broken.Illya stares at the piece of paper stuck over the front of it, the smiley face drawn underneath the dammingOut of Orderas if it somehow helps. The little touch display on the top refuses to light up, no matter how many times he pokes it.Illya stares longingly at the broken machine, and then does what he normally does when he finds a problem he can’t immediately fix.There’s a freshly painted sign over the café opposite as they jimmy the back door open and slip outside, elegant cursive that’s only just readable. “Solo’s,” Gaby reads aloud. “Well, let’s see what they’ve got.”
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Series: lay down my heavy load [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1918252
Comments: 596
Kudos: 536





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New story, which I'm starting to publish as a celebration of finishing my exams and being done with university! I started working on this one because I needed a break after finishing The Death of the Author (the final chapter is up now!) and wanted to write something that took less effort in controlling all the narrative and emotional threads. I figured this was going to be about 30k, maybe (and readers who have stuck with me already know where this is going).
> 
> It's come out at over 70k. I know. I can't stop myself. Like the tags say, this isn't really your typical coffee shop au. There is banter (it's Illya and Napoleon, of course there is banter) but I am going to make you work for the fluff. Be warned. There will be angst (oh boy will there be angst).
> 
> Hope to see some familiar faces in the comments, and some new ones as well! I'll be posting this in pretty regular schedules, at least once a week, and I'm also over on tumblr [here](theheirofashandfire.tumblr.com). Enjoy!

The coffee machine is broken.

Illya stares at the piece of paper stuck over the front of it, the smiley face drawn underneath the damming _Out of Order_ as if it somehow helps. The little touch display on the top refuses to light up, no matter how many times he pokes it.

Hitting the side of it does nothing but make his hand ache for a moment. Hitting it again leaves a small dent in the side of the machine and a brief flash of pain through his wrist where that fracture was a month ago. Illya curses, flexing his fingers until the pain subsides enough for him to ignore it again.

Illya stares longingly at the broken machine, and then does what he normally does when he finds a problem he can’t immediately fix.

Five minutes later and Gaby is sat on the floor, surrounded by parts. “You do realise I’m a mechanic?” she asks as she fiddles with a thin pipe. “You know, for cars, and whatever stupid thing you want me to build for you next? I don’t actually know how a coffee machine works.”

Illya glances up from where he’s leaning against the counter, flicking through the schematics for the machine on his phone. “Aren’t they same things, chop shop girl?” he asks.

He’s ready when a coffee bean comes flying at his head, and dodges out of the way easily. “Try again.”

Gaby briefly appears from where her head was almost all the way inside the skeleton of the machine. “I swear that dent wasn’t on the machine yesterday. Maybe that’s got something to do with it.”

Illya glances away. “That was there after machine broke,” he mutters.

“Hah, I knew it!” Gaby says, a wicked grin on her face. She pokes at Illya with a screwdriver. “Stop taking your temper out on helpless coffee machines. There’s a whole set of punching bags bought for you for a reason, you know. Waverly got the special extra-durable ones just for you.”

“Can you fix it?” Illya asks, swatting away her hand as she tries to poke at him again.

“Not unless you happen to have a bunch of spare coffee machine parts lying around,” Gaby replies. She gets to her feet and wipes her hands off on her trousers, remnants of ground coffee smearing her trousers alongside the engine oil stains. “Also, I don’t particularly want to waste a good hour of my time trying to fix the coffee machine when I could be pretending to do the paperwork on my desk.”

Illya fixes her with a glare. “That was meant to be done last week. I’m not filling out mission reports for you again because you have run off to workshops to tinker with cars.”

Gaby sticks her screwdriver, the purple one that Illya knows is her favourite despite not knowing how he actually knows that, into a pocket. “You’re not grumpy about me _tinkering_ when I managed to make you a real exploding pen for Vienna.”

The exploding pen, Illya reluctantly admits to himself in the privacy of his own head, had been brilliant. Gaby grins at him. “I knew it. Don’t give me that glare, you’re incredibly easy for me to read and you know it.”

Illya keeps scowling at her. “Find someone else to fix coffee machine then, chop shop girl.”

“Christ, not getting your regular cup of coffee in the mornings really makes you annoyed.” Gaby links her arm with his, and Illya lets her tug him out of the small break room and back into the main bullpen of UNCLE field agents. Their shared office is on the other side, and only the existence of the coffee machine and whatever biscuits someone has tried to hide in the break room makes navigating the usual chaos of the bullpen bearable.

Gaby neatly catches a stack of mission reports as they slip from someone’s desk, propping them back up at the last moment. “It’s not even a caffeine addiction problem with you, half the time you drink decaf anyway.”

Illya waits until they’re back in their office and he can no longer here the chaos of the bullpen before saying anything. “I don’t- I like the routine, okay? And now it’s going to take a week at least before Waverly lets someone come in to fix it.”

Gaby hums. “You could always try getting coffee somewhere else. There’s a new place that’s opened up literally opposite that back door nobody is supposed to know about. We could just go and get some coffee from there, see if it’s any good.” She perches on Illya’s desk. “Change can be a good thing, Illya.”

“Change gets us blown up,” Illya counters with. “Or attempts to, at least.”

“Change got you out of Moscow and all the way here,” Gaby says quietly.

A shudder runs through Illya’s body, followed quickly by a well of shame that even mentioning Moscow still can get to him like this, after over two years. He turns away, pretending to busy himself with something on his desk.

Gaby, predictably, sees through it in about two seconds flat. “I know, we don’t talk about Moscow,” she says, leaning over and gently resting her cheek on his shoulder. “Not unless you want to. Doesn’t mean I don’t imagine colourful ways to get back at Oleg sometimes when I’m feeling down, but I promise it’s all hypothetical at best.”

Illya snorts, and he can feel the tension slowly draining from his shoulders. “Only because he knows better than to go anywhere near you, chop shop girl.” He takes a breath, and then another. “Fine. Let’s go and get coffee.”

The grin on Gaby’s face as she grabs his arm and tows him out the office makes having to go outside and to a café just to get coffee worth it. It’s a very familiar feeling. Those first months after Berlin and Italy it was Gaby’s prodding, the grins on her face when she dragged him out of his apartment to explore London, that relenting kindness when his hands shook and the world greyed out around him only to return broken and in pieces on the floor, that made all of this worth it.

There’s a freshly painted sign over the café opposite as they jimmy the back door open and slip outside, elegant cursive that’s only just readable. “Solo’s,” Gaby reads aloud. “Well, let’s see what they’ve got.”

“I don’t have much hope,” Illya mutters as Gaby pushes the door open. “It is a café. In London. It is all going to be weak coffee and stupid prices, and they will have everything but normal coffee because nobody is sane enough to just drink normal coffee anymore-”

“Hi, what can I get you?”

Illya looks up, eyes skimming past old wood panels and chalkboards covered in cursive, people curled up in armchairs with mugs at their elbows as they read or talk or stare at laptops, to the person behind the counter.

His breath sticks in his throat. Dark hair and dark eyes, a grin curling his lips as he leans across the counter towards them. “Coffee?” he asks. “You know, the thing that I make here?”

Some of the words filter through, and Illya sucks in a breath. “ _American?_ ”

The man behind the counter arches a brow. “Yes?” he replies. “Is that somehow stopping me from making you coffee? Seeing as you have just walked into a coffee shop, and all.”

Illya can feel himself flush. Gaby has an amused grin on her face as he turns to her. “This was pointless,” he says. He can feel the man’s gaze on him, and it’s sending something skittering under his skin, something that makes him glance up at how far the door is from them. “He’s American. None of them can make good coffee.”

“Rather a wide generalisation there,” the man says. “Give it a shot. I promise it’s pretty good.”

Illya scoffs. “I’m going back to work, Gaby. Come find me when you’ve had enough of this.”

Gaby grips his arm as he turns to leave. “Come on, Illya,” she says quietly.

He could easily pull out of her grasp. But she’s looking up at him with those big eyes, the ones that always sway him, and he knows that if he disappears back to their office, she’ll only follow him a few minutes later. And then he’ll have to deal with those _looks_ from her all day.

“Fine,” he mutters. “Fine.” He turns back to the counter. “What do you have?”

“What do you want?” he counters with. “My name’s Solo, by the way. Napoleon Solo, but nobody ever uses my first name. In case you hadn’t worked it out from the name outside.”

“Gaby, and this is Illya,” Gaby says. She leans up against the counter, reading the board above Napoleon’s head. “Ooh, you do an affogato. I can’t ever find a good one in this city. And what’s a horchata latte when it’s at home?”

“Horchata is rice-based sugar drink in Mexico,” Illya says, scanning the blackboard for anything that doesn’t have three or more words to its name. “You know, one we had in that café in Guadalajara. You liked it.”

Up until their cover got blown, again, and Gaby’s drink got thrown in the face of a gang member who had the misfortune of thinking her the easier target to sneak up on.

Judging by the soft grin on Gaby’s face, she remembers that moment all too well. “I’ll have one of those, then,” she says. “For nostalgia’s sake.”

“Easy enough,” Napoleon says with a smirk. “And for the Russian?”

Illya scowls. “Black coffee.”

“This is a _coffee shop_ ,” Napoleon says incredulously. He’s already turning to the coffee machine to the side, not looking away from them as he starts mixing a drink. “Black coffee? Do better than that. I can make you literally anything you want here.”

“What kind of coffee shop is this?” Illya snaps. “I ask for black coffee, you make black coffee. This isn’t a negotiation.”

Napoleon grins at him over his shoulder, his lips curling in a slick smirk that looks effortless. “Why not?” he asks. “We can make it one if you want. Come on, what are you willing to trade?”

Illya can’t do anything but stare at him. The entire world seems to have turned upside down. Gaby, the traitor, is just watching the exchange and grinning. “Make me coffee. Black coffee. This is coffee shop, as you say. It shouldn’t be too hard.” He arches a brow, staring him down on the other side of the counter down. “Unless that is too hard for you?”

“Oh, I’ll make you the best damn black coffee you’ve ever had in your life,” Napoleon says, his voice sharpening. He pushes a takeaway cup across the counter towards Gaby. “Your horchata latte.”

Gaby actually _moans_ as she takes a sip. “Oh my god,” she murmurs, cradling the coffee like it’s the answer to everything. “Oh my god, this is incredible. I’m going to marry this coffee. I’m going to kidnap you so you can just make me this coffee every day for the rest of my life.”

Illya scoffs, though he doesn’t doubt that Gaby would be perfectly capable of kidnapping this barista if she wanted to. “It’s just coffee, chop shop girl.”

Gaby presses the cup into his hands with a stern look.

The coffee is heavenly. It tastes just how Illya remembers horchata tasting in Guadalajara, sweet and milky with just the right amount of spice, the coffee just cutting through and balancing it out perfectly. It’s the best coffee he’d had for a long time.

There’s a smug grin on Napoleon’s face when Illya looks up, though Illya is sure that he didn’t give anything away. “And your terribly boring black coffee,” he says, pushing another cup across the counter. “That’ll be eight twenty, if you’re paying together.”

Any slowly creeping thoughts that maybe this wasn’t too bad a place, if the coffee is this good, all drop straight from Illya’s head at that. “Eight twenty? For _coffee_?”

Napoleon arches a brow, the smirk dropping from his face. “That is how this works. I make excellent coffee, and you pay me for making it. Exchanges of goods and services for money.”

“You can’t charge that much just for coffee,” Illya snaps, shrugging off Gaby’s warning hand on his arm. He scoffs. “Typical American. Think everyone has enough money to just be robbed blind by a fancy menu and cursive writing, and the people who can’t just don’t get to have something nice? How many people can afford to actually buy anything here?”

“Evidently, enough for me to run a business,” Napoleon says back sharply. “This is London, and this is, if I say so myself, fucking good coffee. I sell it at the price it’s worth.” He pushes the coffee closer across the counter, the cup nearly tipping as he shoves it. “I don’t really appreciate a stranger coming in here and telling me how to do my job.” He smirks, the smile sharp and cold. “I suppose it’s all so different back in Russia- Moscow, I think, from the accent. So much _fairer_ , I suppose, with those dregs of communism still lingering. Nobody ever has to pay for overpriced coffee.”

A shiver runs through Illya’s body. For a moment, he can smell pine and snow on a wind that isn’t there. “What would you know about it,” he hears himself saying. “You just work in a _coffee shop_.”

“Illya!”

He ignores Gaby as he digs in his pocket and slaps a ten pound note down on the counter. “Keep the change,” he gets out. He snatches his coffee up and stalks out onto the street before the trembling in his hands spreads to the rest of his body.

The door opens and shuts behind him again, and then there’s the sound of quick feet as Gaby catches up. “That was rude, Illya,” she says. “You should apologise.” She eyes the cup of coffee in his hand, watching coffee spill through the hole in the lid as his hand trembles. “In a couple hours, maybe.”

Illya breathes in. “It is a coffee shop,” he gets out. “I don’t even know him. He shouldn’t- he got under my skin.”

Even admitting that makes him suppress a shudder again. Gaby notices, she must notice, because she’s been there for the nearly three years that he’s slowly carved himself away from Moscow and tried to rebuild something else. She links her arm with his. “Don’t take this the wrong way, darling, but how many friends do you have outside of UNCLE?”

Illya has to think for a long moment. “Markos,” he says eventually. “But that’s…complicated, with him still in Moscow. And agents from Interpol and MI6.”

“Outside of our jobs, then,” Gaby says.

“There isn’t anything outside our jobs,” Illya says automatically.

Gaby gives him a pointed look. “I’m just saying, that maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing to get to know Solo a little. Get coffee there a few times. Talk to someone outside of all of the crazy shit we do. Also, you should apologise to him. He was pushing your buttons, yes, but he didn’t have any idea they were…such volatile buttons, and that’s not his fault.” She sips at her coffee. “Also, you were a bit of a dick to him. And I’m going to need to go back there tomorrow, because this coffee is actually to die for.”

Illya arches a brow. “That is dangerous thing to say, chop shop girl.”

Gaby shrugs. “Apologise, Illya. I’m going to need regular coffee from him.”

Illya knows that tone. It’s the same tone that Gaby uses when she has the guts of an engine spread out in front of her and he can’t even get her to move until she’s fixed whatever is wrong. “Fine,” he says eventually. “Fine, I will apologise. Soon.”

“Tomorrow,” Gaby says firmly. Illya can tell that she’s going to remember that, no matter what insane things happen as soon as they step back into UNCLE. He takes a sip of the coffee in his hand, finally remembering that it’s there.

“Damn it.”

Even just the black coffee is really fucking good.

0-o-0-o-0

The bell above the door chimes as Illya reluctantly pushes it open, the warmth of the coffee shop slipping in under his coat and enticing him in. He resists the urge to glance up at the tall building behind him, just to check whether Gaby is standing at a window and glaring at him. She’d refused to let him into his filing cabinet until he came down here.

Solo is behind the counter, chatting with two younger women as he mixes up drinks. Illya pauses for a moment, just watching his hands work. It seems impossibly quick, the way his hands switch between mugs, steaming milk and mixing flavours, mugs pushed under the espresso machine just in time. He sprinkles a fine yellow powder over the top of one, and a few shavings of coconut over the other. All whilst still talking to the two younger women.

They take their mugs and retreat to a small table in the corner, and Napoleon looks up to see Illya hovering in the doorway.

He arches a brow. “Well. Come to malign my profession a little more?”

Illya can feel himself flush. “I- no, why- no,” he says firmly. He steps further into the shop, making himself walk up to the counter. He’s a goddamn spy in the best intelligence agency in the world. He’s one of the best agents that they have. He has stared down torturers with his own blood glistening on their hands, raced against bombs and thrown himself out of burning buildings. He has brought down drug lords and terrorist cells and people who have just wanted to watch the world burn. He turned his back on Moscow and walked away, even though he knew it might kill him.

He is _not_ going to turn around and run out of this coffee shop.

Napoleon is still staring at him, and Illya stops on the other side of the counter. “I wanted to apologise,” he gets out, looking straight at Napoleon. “For yesterday. I was rude, and I should not have insulted you or what you do here. I am sorry.”

Surprise flits across Napoleon’s face. “I- well, thank you for apologising, I suppose,” he says, his voice wary. “Is there anything you want?”

Illya breathes out, and shrugs. “A coffee?” he asks.

“Black?” Napoleon asks, already reaching for the machine.

Illya pauses. “Whatever you think I will like.”

That makes Napoleon pause, and he turns back towards Illya, surprise clear on his face. “Oh, you really are apologising,” he says. “Not just some shitty non-apology.” A brief smile curls the edges of his lips. “In that case, sit tight. I’ll come up with something good.”

Illya slides into a seat at the counter and watches Napoleon get to work. “I really am sorry,” he says as Napoleon is steaming milk with one hand and mixing something in a cup with the other. “I had- I was in bad mood from work, and I-” He ducks his head, even though Napoleon is concentrating on the milk and not looking at him. “Gaby always says I am not so good with people, sometimes. But I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, and I’m sorry for that.”

Napoleon huffs the barest of laughs. “Yeah, I get that. Seems like I hit a nerve or something, so I guess I’m sorry for that as well.”

Illya stares down at the counter, tracing the grain of the wood with one finger. “When did you leave America?” he asks abruptly. “When did you come here?”

“Two different questions,” Napoleon says, pausing in the midst of pouring the steamed milk into the cup. “I’ve only been in London for a few months, but America? Haven’t called anywhere in the States home for years.”

Illya nods slowly. “You were right, yesterday,” he says slowly, looking up at Napoleon. “Moscow, born and raised. I left nearly three years ago. It was…not under the best circumstances.”

Napoleon hums. “I can understand that a little.” He places a cup in front of Illya. There’s a fine dusting of earthy green powder across the foamed milk, an intricate leaf pattern in the top of the drink. “On the house,” Napoleon says. “Sorry for hitting a nerve.”

Illya eyes the drink warily, but takes it and takes a sip. The rich, earthy taste of coffee hits his mouth, layered with something else. He frowns, taking another sip. “Pistachio, and…cardamom?”

“I’m impressed,” Napoleon says, arching a brow. “I would have thought that the only flavours a Russian would know were potatoes and vodka.”

“And I’m surprised that an American doesn’t know anything other than bad chocolate, sugar and deep-fried things,” Illya shoots back before he can help himself.

There’s a beat, and then Napoleon laughs, his head tipping back. “I feel like we should start over,” he says. He holds out his hand. “Hi. I’m Napoleon Solo, nobody ever calls me anything but Solo, and I own a coffee shop with fucking fantastic coffee.”

Illya snorts, and takes his hand. “I’m Illya Kuryakin, and your coffee is still overpriced.” He takes another drink. “But it is good.”

“Only good?” Napoleon asks. He grins, and something in Illya’s chest slowly begins to unknot and loosen. “I’ll take that as a challenge.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gave up on Illya and Napoleon being 'enemies' pretty quickly, both because the banter was more fun to write when they actually liked each other, and because realistically Napoleon would throw Illya straight out of his shop if he didn't like him. And yes, I'll tell you now that Napoleon's past hasn't changed massively from the original, and that's all I'll say on it for now.
> 
> Comments and kudos are much, much loved! I'll be posting pretty regularly, alongside the new Witcher fic I'm also putting up today, so I'll probably be posting at least once a week.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response to this story has been amazing, thank you all so much! A bit of Illya angst (only a little bit, I'm building it up slowly) and a bit more banter as the two of them learn about each other.
> 
> Warnings for violence slightly more graphic than canon, e.g. broken bones.

“Back so soon?”

Illya leans against the counter with a shrug. “Work is slow right now, and when she has nothing to do Gaby gets…how do you say, cranked?”

Napoleon laughs. “Cranky, I think you mean. Trying to placate her with coffee then?”

“I’ll do whatever I can to stop her taking my motorbike apart and trying to _improve it_ ,” Illya mutters. The last time she’d gotten bored and he hadn’t kept a good enough eye on her, he’d gone down to the underground garage to find his motorbike in pieces around her as she worked on the engine with a slightly manic look in her eye.

There’s a muffled cough from Napoleon. “She doesn’t look like a mechanic?” he asks, turning away and briefly fiddling with one of the machines. “I thought that building opposite was a financial firm.”

Illya snorts before he can help himself. Napoleon couldn’t be further from the truth. “We are think tank,” he says, the well-rehearsed cover story springing easily to mind. “R&D for international development. She is engineer.”

Napoleon starts making some sort of coffee. “And you?” he asks over his shoulder.

“Software,” Illya replies, cringing slightly at the lie. He can’t go around telling a civilian that the building opposite his small coffee shop is an international intelligence agency that has stopped the world from imploding more times than Illya can count. That he himself is one of their best agents, with a reputation that stretches across the entire world. That he once belonged to Moscow, and all that means. But the lie still tastes odd on his tongue.

“So what, you work with coding and computer systems within international development?” Napoleon is steaming milk, but still looking over his shoulder at Illya. He doesn’t even look back at the milk to know it’s done. “What does that mean?”

Illya tries not to wince. He hates making up details for cover stories, never sure whether the ones he comes up with actually make any sense for a normal, civilian life. He ran some of these past Gaby when they’d come up with their civilian cover stories for London a while back, and she didn’t laugh too much, but it’s hard to tell with her sometimes. He’s never had the best reference for what a normal civilian life is like.

“We get brought in by governments or aid agencies,” Illya says with a shrug. “I help establish computer systems, security, get electricity and internet out to rural areas for schools and hospitals. That sort of thing.”

It’s not the worst lie he’s ever told. He did once spent two weeks out in rural Somalia, undercover with the Red Cross at a refugee camp whilst trying to find an insurgent cell raiding supply drops and picking off people trying to come in, and he had been coerced into establishing a computer system for the health posts in what little spare time he’d had. So it’s not a complete lie.

Napoleon hums. “Short term emergency relief or longer term development aid?” he asks. He smirks at Illya’s look. “What? Just because I own a coffee shop, doesn’t mean I don’t know about other things. Robust computer infrastructure is becoming increasingly important in areas like refugee camps and health outposts in the midst of conflict. The ability to communicate quickly and to store information outside of physical copies is vital in a place where people are constantly moving or somewhere at risk of conflict.” He turns back towards the coffee machine briefly, pouring an espresso into a larger mug. “How do you cope with security risks when working in an area of conflict?”

Illya blinks. “I’m very good at what I do,” he replies before he thinks it through.

That one is true. Gaby may be a brilliant engineer, able to fashion anything they might need from scraps of a bombed building whilst under heavy fire, but Illya knows computers. Not as well as he knows fifteen ways to kill someone without making a sound or leaving a mark, but close enough that if he doesn’t want something to be infiltrated, then it won’t.

“Glad to hear it,” Napoleon says, breaking him out of his thoughts. He pushes a mug in front of Illya. “On the house.”

“I didn’t order anything,” Illya says. He reaches for the coffee when Napoleon just gives him a look and nudges it closer. “How do you know I will like this, anyway?”

“Call it an educated guess,” Napoleon says with a smirk. Illya takes a sip. He schools his face quickly, but not quickly enough apparently, judging by the way the smirk on Napoleon’s face widens. “Told you,” Napoleon says triumphantly. “That’s a sesame latte, by the way, sweetened with a little caramel.”

“What is wrong with black coffee?” Illya asks desperately. “Why can’t I have black coffee?”

“Nothing is wrong with it per se, it’s just boring,” Napoleon replies with a grin. “Come on, even you with whatever Russian sensibilities you have about fancy coffees have to admit that drink is better than any regular black coffee you could ever get.”

“I don’t have to admit anything,” Illya says. “Black coffee is perfectly good coffee. You’re just too American.”

Napoleon snorts. “I’ve lived in Europe for the past eight years, but sure, I’m too American to appreciate black coffee. I suppose it’s just written into my genetic code or something.”

“Actually, disposition for sensitivity to tannins in things like red wine and coffee is genetic trait,” Illya says without thinking. “Some people don’t like coffee because they are very sensitive to tannins and taste only bitter when drinking, instead of other flavours.”

Napoleon blinks, halfway through wiping down the counter in front of him. “I…did not know that.”

Illya shrugs. “Same with coriander. Some people think it tastes like soap, some think it tastes like herb.” He takes another sip of the coffee, trying to make it last. “It is just genetics.”

“I can’t believe some people think cilantro tastes like soap,” Napoleon mutters. “How can they properly flavour any curry or salsa without it? God, that would be a disaster.”

Illya snorts. “Whatever you say. Like you said, all I know are potatoes and vodka.”

The bell above the door chimes, and a small group of people that look exactly like Illya imagines London art students look like walk in, huddled together in thick coats and scarves against the chill wind outside. Napoleon turns to them, and Illya hides his judging look behind his cup. It’s barely even cold outside, even with the wind. None of them would survive a second in Russian winters.

The coffee is gone far too quickly, and Illya reluctantly pushes the mug back across the counter towards Napoleon, who replaces it with a takeaway cup. “To keep Gaby away from your motorbike,” he says wryly. “Though I am actually going to charge you for this one, or I’m going to start losing money.”

Illya hands over a note just as his phone chimes. It’s a text from Gaby, and he curses. “I’ve got to go,” he says quickly, grabbing Gaby’s coffee. “Keep the change.”

Napoleon says something, but Illya is already out the door and across the street. Gaby is waiting with a file in her hands on the stairs, and Illya flicks through it as they run up to Waverly’s office. “This is going to be-”

“A shitty job?” Gaby asks as they make it onto their floor and cut through the bullpen for Waverly’s office, dodging agents and analysts with years of skill. “Yeah. This one is going to suck. Is that coffee for me?”

Illya presses it into her hands. “Drink quickly. Waverly is going to have us on plane in ten minutes, I’m sure.”

“Twenty, and I’ll write up the bulk of the report after this one,” Gaby says. “And you can raid my liquor stash afterwards.” She takes a gulp of the coffee. “God, that’s good.”

“Agents,” Waverly says, appearing and shutting his office door behind him. “We don’t have any time to waste. Get your bags. I’ll brief you on the way to the plane.”

Gaby stares mournfully at the coffee in her hands. “We make so many sacrifices.”

“Chin up, chop shop girl,” Illya says as he pulls the coffee out of her hands and passes it off to a random agent. He tugs her back down the corridor. “We have work to do.”

“Keeping my chin up just gives someone with a garrote wire a better target,” Gaby mutters. She stares longingly at the coffee for a long moment, before turning away and running after Waverly.

0-o-0-o-0

The sharp staccato of gunfire makes Illya duck his head again back around the relative safety of the doorway. Wood chips explode by his ear, and he grunts as one of them slices across his temple. “Gaby?”

“Almost there,” the answer comes in his ear. “Give me a minute.”

“I don’t have a minute,” Illya snaps. There’s blood sheeting down one side of his face from a lucky strike by an idiot with a club, and one eye is nearly glued shut from the congealed mess across his face. A group of mercenaries are slowly coming down the hallway, and they’re only moving slowly because he’s managed to drop a few of them so far. But they don’t know that he’s down to one pistol and less than half of a magazine. And there’s no way he can get past them to the door.

Gaby is somewhere outside in the grounds, slipping past soldiers and mercenaries as she gets their package out to the contact waiting outside the fence. Illya is stuck in this goddamn compound, distracting the people hunting for them and trying to give her a good enough window ever since they got separated in this maze.

There’s a muffled shout from outside. Illya drops low and sweeps around the doorframe. Two precise shots, and another mercenary goes down with a bloody mess where their kneecap should be. He ducks back around the doorway just as another burst of gunfire chips away more of the doorway.

“Done,” Gaby gasps in his ear. “Illya, get out of there.”

“On my way,” Illya says. He gets to his feet.

The mercenaries down the hall have fallen silent. Illya listens for a long moment, holding his breath.

Footsteps back up away from the doorway. There’s a quiet _snick_ of metal against metal, and then a series of dull thumps coming closer down the hallway.

Three grenades roll into view outside the door.

“ _Fuck_.”

There’s a window in the room. It’s a two storey drop into the grounds below, and if he gets it wrong he’ll shatter everything on the concrete instead of landing on the grass. But it’s better than three grenades.

Two shots take out the plate glass of the window. Illya jumps and tries to twist mid-air to land on his side, just as the grenades explode behind him. Something slams into the back of his head, and the ground rushes up to meet him.

A blinding pain ricochets up his leg as he lands. He can hear the snap of the bone, can feel it reverberate through his body even over the roar of the explosion above him, the blast of heat and sound of debris clattering down to the ground around him. There are shouts from far away, just audible over the ringing in his ears.

It takes nearly biting through his lip to roll over and struggle to his feet. His leg buckles when he tries to put any weight on it, the pain enough to steal his breath, but he gets up and staggers for cover anyway. The map of the compound surfaces in his head, achingly slowly. Gaby will be out now, with the package and their contact. He just has to get across the compound and to the hole they left in the fence. If it hasn’t already been found.

His pistol is long gone, somewhere back under all the debris that nearly buried him. He pulls a knife out from the holster on his thigh, fingers gripping the handle, and starts to stagger towards the fence.

There’s a shout, and then another, and a bullet embeds itself in a tree only a few feet from him. Bright light sweeps across the compound from behind him. The shouting gets louder.

Two bright beams cut through the night in front of him, and then Illya hears the roaring of an engine over the ringing in his ears. A car flies towards him, fishtailing over the grass and screeching to a halt between him and the soldiers behind him. “Get in!” Gaby shouts, firing a pistol out of the window.

Illya doesn’t need to be told twice. He grabs the door and flings himself inside the car. His leg hits against the seat and his vision whites out for a moment, but he grapples it back. He can’t pass out. Not yet.

Gaby throws a rifle to him and then guns the engine. With a grunt, Illya drags himself up and starts firing back out of the window as Gaby lives up to her reputation and drives like a madwoman out of the compound.

“The package is secure and on its way out of here,” she spits out as she spins the car around a corner. “You’re an idiot.”

“I know,” Illya grunts. He tries to steady himself with one hand against the car seat, rifle propped up against the window. The searchlights slowly get smaller and smaller in the distance behind them, until he can no longer hear the shouts of the mercenaries.

Gaby glances back at him once they make it onto a road, the car only slowing slightly. “You look like hell.”

Illya swallows against the nausea working its way up his throat, his pulse hammering in his ears in time with the pain throbbing its way up his leg. “Leg is broken,” he gets out. “Not sure how bad.”

Gaby glances back at him again. “Open wound?”

Illya takes a breath, and then reaches down to feel around his leg. He can feel where the break is, where it bends where it shouldn’t, and it takes a lot of effort to not throw up as he pushes around it. He can’t feel any blood coating his trouser, or the car seat underneath. “I don’t think so.”

Gaby breathes out. “Okay. Okay, we can do this.”

“You can,” Illya says, desperately trying to push back the rising tide threatening to swamp his vision. It’s a battle he knows he is going to lose. “I’m going to pass out now.”

He has the forethought to click on the safety on the rifle before blissful darkness swallows him.

0-o-0-o-0

“Go home.”

Illya folds his arms, and then unfolds them as his ribs protest at the movement. “I’m already here. I might as well stay and do some work.”

Gaby glares at him from the desk. The bruises across her cheek are slowly fading, turning from purple to sickly green. Illya knows that his own bruises, mottled around the cut across his temple, are still vibrant blue and purple. More spread out across his right side around two cracked ribs, and he’s sure that if the cast was taken off his leg the entire thing would be bright purple.

“You have a broken leg, two cracked ribs, the very remnants of a concussion and are generally about as bad as you would expect from jumping out of a second storey window,” Gaby says sharply. “You should go home and get some rest.”

Illya shakes his head. “I can get some reports done. Some of paperwork that we are behind on. I have nothing else to do.”

“Illya,” Gaby says pleadingly. “Darling. Please go home. You’re hurt, it’s okay to take a little time off and heal up.”

“It is not like I am going to start running any marathons,” Illya snaps. “I am sitting here and typing. That is it. I will be fine.” He pulls a file over to himself and flips it open.

Gaby sighs. “Well, I suppose at least you’re not at the firing range. Small steps. I need to go and shout at some engineers about things, but I’ll come find you when it’s time to go and give you a lift back.” She hovers by the door. “If you want to go home, call me and-”

“I’ll be fine, chop shop girl,” Illya says wryly. “It is only our office.”

Gaby presses a quick kiss to his unbruised cheek. “Try not to hurt yourself on the stationery.”

Illya gets about thirty minutes of work done in two hours. The words keep swimming in front of him on his laptop, and every time he reaches for a file or a pen there’s a deep ache in his ribs and leg. He takes all the painkillers he can within an hour, but there’s not too much that they can do against a broken bone.

After two hours, he gives in. Crutches are hell with cracked ribs, but he’ll be damned if he uses a wheelchair. Every step aches as he hobbles downstairs, nudges open the back door and limps across the street. He’d forgotten a coat, and the cold wind nips at him until the warm air of the coffee shop as he steps inside feels like a blessing.

Napoleon glances up from behind the counter. “Hey Illya, I was wondering where- what the _hell_ happened to you?”

Illya doggedly limps up to the counter, bracing himself against it with a grimace. “Accident,” he gets out. “Away for work. Didn’t go quite to plan.”

Napoleon hurries out from behind the counter. “Christ, Illya, you look like you’re about to fall over. Come on, sit down over here. Have you got painkillers you can take? You’re as white as a sheet.”

Illya lets Napoleon grasp his arm and take a little of his weight as he hobbles over to an armchair near the counter. “Can’t take any more for three hours,” he gets out, hissing out the last words as he carefully lowers himself down into the armchair. It’s luxuriously soft, and he sinks back into it with relief. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

“Your leg is broken,” Napoleon says sceptically. “That doesn’t seem fine to me.”

Illya glares up at him, trying not to wince as he props his casted leg up on the coffee table. “I already have heard speech from Gaby about how I need to be more careful. I do not need another one.”

Napoleon arches a brow, staring down at him. “Are you sure? I know you Russians tend to be a stoic lot, but if the Red Peril himself needs another lecture on how to not get into accidents at work and how to avoid breaking his damn leg, I’d be happy to give it.”

The painkillers must be making him slow. Illya blinks, running the words back through his head. “Red…Peril?”

The fight seems to dissipate from the line of Napoleon’s shoulders. He sits down on the edge of the coffee table, careful of Illya’s leg. “What the Americans used to call the Russians during the Cold War. Well, the nicer version everyone said around kids, I suppose. Just slipped out.”

“Cold War is long over,” Illya feels the need to point out. “And Russia is not communist state anymore.”

Napoleon’s lips twist in a smile. “I know, Illya. Are you sure you shouldn’t be at home, resting?”

Illya tries hard not to roll his eyes. Judging by Napoleon’s expression, it doesn’t work. “I can get some work done in office. No point sitting around at home with nothing to do.”

“Of course.” Napoleon gets to his feet, gently resting a hand on his shoulder. “Stay here as long as you want. I have a few books if you want something to read, and I’ll make you up a drink.”

Illya tries to concentrate on the book that Napoleon lends him, he really does. But the armchair is ridiculously soft and the painkillers are just beginning to take off the edge of the deep ache throughout his body. He feels himself relaxing into the chair without his permission, and then his head lolls to the side as he falls slowly into sleep. Right at the edge of consciousness, he feels a gentle hand ease the book from between his fingers.

Surfacing back to consciousness is slow. For a moment, everything is soft and muted. And then there’s a hand gently shaking his shoulder, and a deep ache floods through his body. He reacts on instinct, reaching up and grabbing hold of the wrist in an iron grip.

“You’re okay, Illya, it’s just me.”

Illya reluctantly surfaces the last few inches to full consciousness, and cracks open his eyes. “Solo?”

“The very same,” Napoleon says, leant over him and gingerly extracting his wrist. “You’ve been asleep for a few hours. I wanted to let you rest, but it’s best to stay on top of the pain, and you can take some more painkillers now. Do you have them with you?”

Illya nods, stifling a hiss as he pushes himself up in the armchair. Another wave of pain rocks through him as his ribs protest, and he swallows around the lump sitting heavily in his throat. He’s not going to be sick. He is _not_ going to be sick.

“I didn’t think it was possible, but you’ve gone even whiter than you were earlier,” Napoleon says, his brow furrowed. “Please don’t throw up.”

Illya breathes steadily until he can think past the pain. “Not going to,” he gets out. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

Napoleon really doesn’t look convinced. “Coffee probably isn’t the best idea, but I’ll make you some tea. And get you something to eat. Strong painkillers are never good on an empty stomach.”

Illya would protest, but he can’t summon the energy to do so. He picks back up the book that Napoleon had set down beside him. It’s a book about the history of Renaissance art. Somehow, he’s not quite surprised.

Napoleon reappears a few minutes later, a mug and a plate in his hands. Illya takes the mug and then frowns, breathing in the steam coming off the top. It takes a moment to place it, but suddenly he remembers the smell, sat in a small café and watching the Mediterranean, the hills rising sharp behind him. There had been an old submarine base in the cove, left over from the cold war, and he’d watched the local kids running across the dock from his seat in that little café, fragrant steam rising from the mug in his hands.

“You have caj mali?”

Napoleon’s face lights up as he puts the plate down and sits on the edge of the coffee table. “You know it?”

Illya takes a few sips, and feels the nausea clinging to his throat slowly subside. “Travel for work, remember. What is an American, running coffee shop in London, doing with caj mali? How do you even know about it?”

Napoleon shrugs. “I travelled a lot, mostly around Europe, before this. Albania was beautiful, up in the mountains. If you avoided the smuggling.”

Illya arches a brow. “You would be _very_ unlucky to run into smugglers in mountains. They know those hills better than anyone else.” Which made them a nightmare to try and track down, when there were a thousand bolt holes they disappeared into every time he got close.

Napoleon smirks. “Very unlucky, or far too drunk on homebrewed raki that I’m pretty sure was over a hundred proof. All I know is that I apparently stumbled into some meeting by accident and stumbled back out again.” He huffs a laugh. “I don’t actually remember any of it.”

“Pretty common for raki,” Illya says dryly. He takes another few sips, and then starts to pick at the sandwich in front of him. “You don’t have to sit here and watch me eat,” he mutters when Napoleon makes no move to get back up.

“I’m just making sure you’re not going to be sick after all that hard work I put into your tea and sandwich,” Napoleon says with a grin.

Illya stares down at the sandwich. “It’s pre-packaged.”

“My point still stands. I haven’t gotten around to thinking about home-made food here beyond those pastries and dessert…things.”

Illya twists to glance back at the counter, only remembering far too late about his ribs. A pained grunt escapes his lips as he tries not to grip at his side. “You make those?”

“In the mornings before I open,” Napoleon replies absent-mindedly as he shifts towards Illya, brow furrowed. “Did you bust some ribs as well? Christ, how did you actually do this?”

Illya casts around for some sort of explanation that doesn’t involve grenades. “I…I fell off a roof,” he says with a wince. “I was…trying to fix cables and I…I slipped. Fell couple stories.” He winces again. “Not onto concrete, luckily, but grass turned out to hurt anyway.”

“You’re either really clumsy, or have the worst luck,” Napoleon says wryly. “Judging by that nasty bruise and the cut on your temple, you must have hit your head pretty hard on the way down.”

Illya gingerly feels along the edge of the cut. An UNCLE medic had glued it back together at some point, and it probably wouldn’t scar like the one over his eye, but it was still irritating. With the spread of purple across one side of his face, it had taken ages to clean all of the dried blood off, and the shirt he’d been wearing was unsaveable and in a bin in a field hospital in the middle of nowhere. “It will be fine. Gaby kept eyes on me, poked me awake and asked me stupid questions all night.”

The door chimes and a group of young women walk in. Illya adds up the cost of their handbags in his head as Napoleon gets up to serve them, and sums up all the accessories he can see when he runs out of bags. It’s good practice for when Gaby next decides he needs to dress her up for an undercover mission.

If it was up to her, she wouldn’t ever change out of her boiler suits or her oil-stained jumpers and jeans. It’s Illya’s duty to make sure their cover isn’t blown within the first minute.

“Sorry, I had to make about six different chai teas or lattes, each with different types of milk,” Napoleon says as he comes back over, sitting back on the edge of the coffee table opposite Illya. “Two of them told me about five times each to make sure that the soymilk was _actually organic_ , and that I wasn’t somehow cheating them.” He laughs. “If they’d asked to talk to the manager, they would have gotten a nasty shock.”

“What is wrong with chai tea?” Illya asks.

Napoleon scoffs. “Only that _chai_ means tea anyway, so essentially they’re asking for _tea tea_. In most Arabic countries, in your own country actually, _chai_ just means tea. It’s stupid to call something chai tea. And yet, because of people like that who come in here all the damn time, I have to write chai tea up on that blackboard.”

Illya snorts. “You have obviously never heard of prototype theory.” Napoleon arches a brow, and he shrugs. “It is common in English that when word is encountered that English already has a word for, like chai, it is taken and used for a specific subset of the original word. In Russian, yes, _chai_ means tea. But in English it does not mean tea. It means a subset of tea, made with masala chai spices. It is like saying Sahara Desert when Sahara means desert anyway. It is used to distinguish that one desert from all other deserts. And whether language uses _chai_ or _tea_ to describe drink, it is because of which part of China they traded with. Portuguese imported tea through Macau where Cantonese was main language, and they used _cha_. Europe imported tea through Fujian, where Min Chinese was more spoken, and they used _te_.” He shrugs again. “They are using word correctly in context of English language. And you are wrong.”

Napoleon blinks. And then blinks again. Illya picks back up his mug, a smug grin curling his lips. “You can get back on your horse now, Cowboy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That bit right at the beginning, Napoleon turning away and fiddling with one of the machines when Illya mentions he has a motorbike is absolutely him imagining Illya on a motorbike, in leathers and with his hair all windswept, and then almost losing his composure over that image.
> 
> Caj mali is an Albanian mountain tea that I had whilst on holiday in Albania last year- it's actually wild oregano that grows everywhere. It's really good and considered somewhat of a cure-all for any ailment.
> 
> Also, I've mentioned it to a few people in comments already, but I actually do not drink coffee at all- everything about coffee in this fic has been based on friends (I was at uni for four years, I know a lot of coffee-addicted people) and on five minutes frantic googling of niche coffee flavours.
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are much loved!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all keep amazing me with the response to this, you're fantastic. Some more bonding between Illya and Napoleon, with a little bit of angst mixed in because I can't help myself.

Illya falls comfortably into a routine. Gaby breaks into his apartment in the morning and gently prods him into eating breakfast and taking enough painkillers, and then drives them into the office. Illya gets a few hours of work done in their office as Gaby disappears to do Waverly’s bidding, and then hobbles downstairs and across the street.

He has an armchair in Napoleon’s coffee shop now. An armchair that is near the counter, situated so that he can see both most of the coffee shop and the door. The regulars know to leave it alone, by now, a fact which makes Illya’s head hurt when he thinks about it too much. Napoleon still refuses to make him a black coffee, and actually seems to delight in coming up with new combinations that he makes Illya guess at before telling him what he put in there.

There are a pile of books slowly growing on the coffee table that Illya is working his way through, ones that Napoleon seems to have brought in. He usually only manages to make it through a chapter or two of one before dozing off, the combination of painkillers and the warm smell of coffee and baked pastries sending him slowly drifting to sleep.

It’s a weird feeling, having so much time to himself, sitting in the coffee shop and talking with Napoleon about arts and politics and anything that comes to mind. But he thinks he might be enjoying it.

He wakes up one afternoon to find Napoleon halfway through stacking up more books on a bookshelf, now pushed up against one wall. “They are all art books, Cowboy,” Illya mutters, rubbing at his eyes. “It gets boring after while.”

“After _a_ while, Peril,” Napoleon says over his shoulder. “Articles exist, and are useful. And yes, I’m aware. What’s wrong with art books?”

Illya scrunches his nose. “Nothing in particular. It is just…not interesting, after while.”

“Not interesting?” Napoleon scoffs. “You’ve never paid attention in a museum or art gallery, then. Hundreds of years of history, the touch of people long since dead all around you. The story of society, of _people_ , all just hanging up on walls, a hundred artists trying desperately to tell you a story and they’re just _there_ , waiting for you to listen properly.” He shakes his head. “First museum I stepped inside in Madrid, I couldn’t stop staring.”

Napoleon stares off into distance, turning one of the books over and over in his hands. “So goddamn beautiful, Peril. All that art, just right there…” He trails off, starting slightly. “Anyway, these books are all I have at home that I don’t want to keep there. If you have any spare books to lend, bring them in.” He stacks up the last few books, and sets a small chalkboard sign on one shelf where _Take One and Leave One_ is written in curling cursive. “It’ll fill up soon,” Napoleon says, coming to sit back on the edge of the coffee table next to Illya. “This is London, and I see way too many hipsters in this shop. They’ll love it. And free books are never a bad thing.”

Illya hums over the rim of his mug. “Coffee is still overpriced, Cowboy.”

“And yet somehow, I’m still making money,” Napoleon replies with a grin. “And you’re still drinking it.”

Illya is tempted to point out that Napoleon hasn’t made him pay for coffee ever since that first meeting, and that the mugs just keep appearing in front of him, but that seems risky. Napoleon seems to have a very good sense for when he’s about to wake up, and the coffee is the perfect temperature as soon as he’s awake to reach for the mug.

“You need some Terry Pratchett.”

Napoleon gives him a curious look, and Illya realises he’s spoken out loud. He can feel red rush to his cheeks. “Fantasy books,” he mutters. “But also…social commentary, and morality lessons, and very funny? They are very good.” He has a rotating number of Pratchett books that he stashes in his go bag for the planes, for when the neatly typed mission reports are floating behind his eyes and he can’t read them anymore.

“I’ll look around some second-hand bookstores, when I have the time,” Napoleon just says. “Where should I start?”

Two days later, and there is a shelf full of Discworld novels. Illya spots a few of them left out on the tables and the counter, pages dog-eared or with receipts as bookmarks. Slowly, the shelves fill up.

0-o-0-o-0

He wakes slowly to the low hum of a voice. His ribs ache in time with the pulse in his leg. Even now, a week after first hobbling across the street and into the coffee shop, the painkillers still knock him out whether he likes it or not.

When he opens his eyes, the light is dimmer than normal. The street lamps are on outside, soft yellow casting the damp streets in a quiet glow that slowly diffuses through the windows and inside. There’s a low voice, singing softly.

Illya turns his head to see Napoleon leaning against the counter, a few sheets of paper and a pen in his hands. The normal soft classical or jazz that plays overhead during the day is gone. In its place, what sounds like a banjo is strumming under a low voice.

Two low voices. Napoleon is singing along at the counter, nodding along to the beat. For a few moments Illya just listens.

_“As I went walking that ribbon of highway_

_I saw above me an endless skyway,_

_Saw below me that golden valley._

_This land was made for you and me.”_

“What song is this?”

Napoleon jumps, pen flicking out of his hand. He scrambles to grab it before it rolls of the counter. “I thought you were still asleep, Peril.”

Illya pushes himself up in the armchair a little further. “I just woke up. What time is it?”

“A little after seven, I think.” Napoleon goes back to the sheets of paper on the counter, jotting something down. “You looked exhausted when you came in here, and I figured it was best to just let you sleep. Gaby texted me, said she was stuck in her office, and would swing by later if you were still here.”

Illya frowns. “When did Gaby give you her- you know what, that is not important. You normally close at six. Why are you still here?”

Napoleon looks up from the papers. “Because I own and run this place?” he says, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Besides, you looked far too peaceful to wake up and kick out onto the streets with a broken leg.”

“I am not _incapable_ ,” Illya snaps. “I don’t need to wait for Gaby to come and take me home, and I don’t need _you_ to patronise me. I have broken leg. That is it. I’ll be _fine_.”

Napoleon arches a brow. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at Illya from across the counter with a slight tilt to his lips as that damn song keeps playing around them. Illya grips the arm of the chair, trying to pull himself up further when that damn cast keeps weighing him down, he can’t even walk right now without those crutches, the ones that send stabbing pains through his chest because cracked ribs don’t just heal themselves either. He’s useless right now, he’s absolutely useless and all he can do is sit in this coffee shop. He can’t even do that right, Napoleon must just want to go home but has had to stay here because he _fell asleep_. In a _fucking coffee shop_.

“Take a breath, Peril, preferably before you rip the stuffing out of the arms of that chair.”

The dry tone is enough to snap Illya out of his thoughts, enough for him to get a handle on the skittering beneath his skin, the restlessness that has been stalking him ever since he’s reduced the painkillers enough to properly think. He’s gripping the fabric so hard that he can feel it beginning to give a little under his fingers, and he makes himself let go, take a breath until the world is a little easier.

A wry grin flits across Napoleon’s lips. There’s no disappointment in his expression, no thinly veiled disapproval or pity. “You’re not very good at doing nothing, are you?” He straightens up before Illya can say anything. “Give me one second.”

Illya gives him five, and then starts to try and reach his crutches. They’ve rolled away from the chair, and he can’t quite reach them without his ribs protesting at the strain. There’s a clattering from the back room, a muffled curse, and then Napoleon appears. “Stop it, you’re going to hurt those ribs again,” he chides, pushing Illya’s crutches further away from him. “Here. Do you know how to play?”

There’s a small, battered and slightly dusty briefcase in his hands, which he sets down on the coffee table before sitting down opposite him. Illya eyes the crutches, now far out of reach unless he hauls himself out of his chair and hops over to them. “You can’t actually stop me from leaving.”

Napoleon doesn’t look up from where he’s fiddling with the briefcase clasp. “Technically, no. But I’m betting this might keep you occupied.” He flips the briefcase open and spins it towards him. Illya looks down to see a backgammon set.

It looks old, but well-kept. Illya rolls one of the pieces between his fingers, studying the small embellishment running around the sides. The board itself is smooth wood, and Illya can tell the quality of it just from looking. “This was not cheap,” he comments before he can help himself.

Napoleon looks amused as he gently takes the piece from between Illya’s fingers and begins setting up the board. “It was a…gift, I suppose,” he says. “Do you know how to play?”

Illya shrugs. “It is not chess, but I am okay. White or black?”

“Black,” Napoleon says decisively. “I’ll try not to clear you out in five rounds.”

Illya snorts. “I would like to see you try.”

It becomes abundantly clear that Napoleon is toying with him only three rounds in. Illya glares down at the board, trying to work out how exactly Napoleon had managed to pull that move off. “You’re cheating,” he mutters half-heartedly as he scoops the dice up.

Napoleon’s expression is horribly smug as he watches Illya roll. “No, I’m just that good,” he replies. “What was that line you said again? Something about…getting back on my horse?” His smirk widens as Illya moves his pieces. “Loving your work, Peril. Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”

Illya glares up at him, dropping the dice into an outstretched hand. “Get chess set in here and I will beat you in three moves.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will,” Napoleon murmurs as he studies the board, dice faintly rattling together in the cage of his hand. “But this is backgammon. And I am going to annihilate you.”

It takes two games, Napoleon handily winning both of them, before Illya realises that the restlessness and anger that had started prowling beneath his skin has vanished, and has been missing ever since Napoleon put the backgammon set down on the table. He takes a breath, and relishes in the way that there’s only a slight ache from his ribs and nothing else.

“What was that song?” he asks as Napoleon resets the board for a third game. “The one you were singing along to when I woke up.”

Napoleon frowns thoughtfully for a long moment, turning a backgammon piece over in his hands. “Oh,” he says suddenly. “Pete Seeger. _This land is your land_ , I think.”

“Different to what you normally play in here,” Illya remarks, picking up the dice and rolling them around in his hand. “You know, when you are actually open. That is all classical and…and _hipster_.”

“You don’t have to say it like it’s a dirty word, Peril,” Napoleon replies, a grin curling his lips. “But yes, I normally keep classical playing during the day, sometimes some songs that I picked up when travelling. It’s the type of thing people expect from a place like this. But when it’s just me?” He shrugs. “I revert back to what I grew up with. Habit, I suppose.”

Illya glances up, watching Napoleon as he studies the backgammon board. “It is not just you, though,” he says quietly. “Here, I mean.”

Napoleon looks up. A broad smile comes across his face, entirely unlike those smiles Illya sees during the day when he’s taking orders and making coffee. “Well, you hardly count as just a customer, do you, Peril?” he says, like it isn’t anything important, like it doesn’t make Illya’s chest suddenly tighten for a moment. “Now, make your move. And if you can name me another Pete Seeger song, I’ll give you a tip on how to attempt to beat me.”

Illya, a beat too late, remembers the dice in his hands. “No idea, Cowboy,” he gets out. “Where are you even from in States?”

“Where do you think?” Napoleon shoots back, watching with a smirk as Illya moves his pieces.

Illya frowns, trying to play back some of their conversation in his head. “You have weird accent. Mid-Atlantic, but mid-Atlantic accents have not existed for half century. You sound like old movie star from black and white movies.”

Napoleon rattles the dice in his hand. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Illya tries hard not to blush. “Of course you would, Cowboy.” He runs back through conversations he still remembers between the two of them, over mugs of coffee or caj mali, trying to pick out any inflections or tones that he might have noticed. He isn’t good at faking accents himself, let alone spotting them in other people. Gaby endlessly pokes fun at his attempts at accents when they’re undercover, until Illya gets to disappear with a sniper rifle and a perch high up overlooking the scene and leave her to the undercover work.

For a moment, something twists in his chest. Markos had been excellent at accents. He would have identified Napoleon’s in a heartbeat, found out whatever little tells are left under an accent that has definitely been deliberately manufactured. For whatever reason Napoleon has.

Napoleon waves the dice in front of his face, and Illya starts. “Not New York,” he says eventually. “You don’t sound like you are from that East coast area.”

Napoleon inclines his head. “I’ll give you that,” he says. “Guess right and you get…free coffee for life, or something. But you can’t just go off listing states. I want real explanations each time you make a guess.”

Illya snorts, turning back to the board. “You make it sound like homework. I don’t actually care.”

“Don’t you?” Napoleon asks, arching a brow. “By all means, then, forget about it. If you can.”

Illya can feel his face going red. “Shut up, Cowboy,” he mutters, throwing the dice across the board. “I’m going to beat you this time.”

“Oh, you can give it your best shot,” Napoleon replies, scooping the dice off the board. “Bring it on.”

When Gaby finally gets out of the office and hurries across the street, she opens the door to find Napoleon trying to teach Illya the finer points of trash talking an opponent. Both of them are red in the face from laughter, Illya curled protectively over his ribs as he gasps for breath. Napoleon is trying to tell Illya something but can’t get the words out between bursts of laughter. There’s an abandoned game of what looks like backgammon between them, the coffee table dotted with empty mugs.

Illya spots her hovering in the doorway. He waves her over, and there’s a smile on his face. A _real_ smile, one of the ones that had been achingly rare after Berlin and Italy and Illya uprooting his entire life to do what he thought was right. Gaby joins them, perching on the arm of Illya’s chair, and as Napoleon starts trying to explain something, only for Illya to interrupt with what is obviously an inside joke to the two of them and send them both off into peals of laughter again, she can’t help the answering smile on her face.

0-o-0-o-0

The cast comes off, probably a week or so before it really should, and Illya throws himself back into work and training, spending hours in the early morning down in the gym in the basement before the agency really wakes up. He’s spent weeks sitting around and falling asleep in coffee shops, and he knows that it’s taken off an edge he needs back before he goes back into the field. The world of international intelligence has been luckily quiet the past few weeks, Gaby only occasionally called away overseas, but it won’t stay like that for long.

Somehow, he can’t resist going downstairs when he can find the time and running across the road, picking up whatever new concoction Napoleon has decided to test on him and making some pointed remark about the prices up on the chalkboard behind Napoleon’s head. Gaby drags him away from the gym on some days when she finds out he’s been there since five in the morning and hasn’t eaten anything yet, and it only takes one conversation where she mentions this to Napoleon for him to start handing over pastries and fruit with the coffee.

Illya prefers the coffee shop in the evenings, when there are hardly any people in there and Napoleon can come out from behind the counter. He pulls out the backgammon set a few times, and then Illya brings his old battered chess set in one day and promptly annihilates him at chess. Gaby joins him a few times, borrowing trashy romance novels off the shelf that Napoleon swears he has no idea how they got there, and curling up in an armchair as she tries to throw both of them off their game.

“For once, you’re leaving work at regular times,” Gaby says as Illya packs up his bag one evening, locking away the files he’s had out in the safe in the corner. “I’m proud of you.”

“I would say sarcasm does not become you, but it is all you know,” Illya says over his shoulder. “Are you staying?”

“I need to finish up this paperwork, and then there’s a bottle of wine at home calling my name,” Gaby says with a grin. “You’re welcome to join, but you’ll have to bring your own bottle.”

“When you get drunk on wine, you insist on having bubble baths,” Illya reminds her. “I am not staying around to watch you strip in living room whilst drunk and catch you when you trip on your trousers. Again.”

“Like that ever…yeah, okay,” Gaby says, relenting at Illya’s look. “You would think that if I was going to get drunk, strip and have a bubble bath, I would at least do it around a man who might feasibly be attracted to me. But no, instead I fall over my trousers and get caught by my partner, who not only will never be attracted to me and I never _want_ to be attracted to me, but who can also drink a bottle of vodka and still walk in a straight line.” She glares at him over her paperwork. “Don’t say anything about superior Russian blood. I will stab you with this pen.”

“Your arms are too short to reach me, chop shop girl,” Illya says, pre-emptively ducking to avoid the pen lobbed at his head. “Enjoy your wine. And your bath.”

“Enjoy your coffee!” Gaby calls after him.

Napoleon is still open as Illya heads across the street. There’s a line at the counter, most of the tables and chairs around the café already occupied, and Napoleon only gives Illya a brief nod before he’s turning back to the till and the next customer waiting. Illya grabs a book at random from the bookshelves, finds an empty chair and settles in to wait.

Illya doesn’t read more than a line of his book. He watches Napoleon instead. There’s a cup of coffee next to him, but Napoleon barely gives him a strained smile before he’s turning and hurrying off to deal with something else. There’s a tension sitting over his shoulders that makes Illya shift uneasily until he reminds himself that this is a coffee shop, and Napoleon looking tense does not mean that someone has information that he doesn’t or that there’s a sniper waiting on a roof for him somewhere. It’s a coffee shop, and Napoleon, as vague as he can sometimes be about what he did before this, is not an enemy spy.

People slowly trickle out of the shop as the sky darkens outside and the street lamps flicker on, but the line of tension thrumming through Napoleon doesn’t dissipate. Illya watches over the edge of his book as Napoleon moves between the counter and the rest of the shop, making coffees for the few people who are still coming through between clearing up the tables. His movements become sharper and more agitated as the evening draws on, even as the shop slowly empties until eventually it’s only Illya watching Napoleon stalk around.

He looks back at his book for a moment, trying to pretend that he isn’t watching Napoleon pace back and forth, and is caught completely unawares when there’s a shattering crash of china. He jumps to his feet, book abandoned, just in time to see Napoleon throw a tray down onto the floor with a snarl of frustration. Shards of china are scattered around his feet, the remnants of what must have been an entire tray of dirty mugs.

“Are you okay?” Illya asks, hesitating just out of range. Napoleon’s fists are clenched at his side, muscle ticking in his jaw, just staring down at the shattered mugs at his feet. “Did any catch you?”

Napoleon breathes out sharply. “I’m fine,” he snaps. “It’s- I’m fine. I’ll just…clear this up.” He breathes out again, running both hands through his hair. “Fucking hell. As if this day couldn’t get _any_ worse.”

Illya glances around him, at the tables with some mugs and plates still on them, the chairs scattered around the shop. “What needs doing?”

Napoleon jolts, looking up from where he’s crouched on the floor and picking up the largest shards. “What?”

“What else needs doing?” Illya asks again. “Put me to work.”

Napoleon stares incredulously up at him for a long few seconds before he manages to say anything. “I’m sure this is, what, your Russian socialist tendencies coming through here? But you don’t need to do anything.”

“I have been watching you pace around this shop for-” Illya checks his watch, “nearly an hour now. You are upset over something, Cowboy, and you do not have to say anything about it, but I can help.” He crosses his arms, staring Napoleon down. “Let me help. Even if it is just wiping down tables.”

“Jesus,” Napoleon mutters. He hangs his head. “Fine, fine. If you go behind the counter there is a spray bottle and cloth under the counter. Use that to wipe down the tables. Just put any of those dirty mugs on the counter and I’ll deal with them.”

Illya starts clearing up the shop as Napoleon sweeps up the broken mugs and disappears into the back. It’s easy work, repetitive enough to not think about much, and Illya finds himself running through some judo moves in his head whilst he works, dusting off some of the more complicated throws he hasn’t had the chance to try in a long time.

Gaby keeps trying to convince him to join a judo club in London, bringing it up every few months when she gets it into her head that he’s too lonely. He’s done nothing more than looking up clubs online a few times before abruptly closing the browser when the thought of meeting a whole new club all at once makes his hands tremble slightly.

The thought of it is a little less worrying now, somehow. Illya glances up at Napoleon as he reappears from the back for a moment, gathering up another tray of dirty mugs and plates before disappearing again.

Maybe Gaby was right, every time she’s said he should do something outside of UNCLE. That he was lonely. There’s been a slow creeping change ever since he walked back in here to apologise and just kept coming back.

He doesn’t have to _tell_ her that, though.

Napoleon is still in the back when Illya eventually runs out of tables to clean and chairs to put back in place. He ducks behind the counter and through the door that leads to the back. “Cowboy?”

Napoleon is slumped at the stainless steel table in the middle of the kitchen, hands tugging through his hair. There’s an array of kitchen equipment that Illya couldn’t possibly hope to name stacked along the counters, a pantry hanging open with what look like bags of coffee beans stacked up next to it. The table is covered in containers of what Illya is fairly sure are flour and sugar, and messy piles of paper that Napoleon is staring at.

Illya clears his throat. “Cowboy?”

Napoleon jolts. “Oh,” he says, sitting up. “Peril.” He rubs at his face. “God, don’t just hang around for me. Go home. I’ll be fine.”

Illya leans against the wall. “What else needs doing?” he asks quietly.

Napoleon stares at the far wall. “I…I’m waiting for that dish cycle to finish, and then all of that needs to be put away. And there’s things to set up for tomorrow, the front to get ready, and I haven’t even had a chance to think about making the pastry for the pie…things, tomorrow, and god, if I want to do croissants then I need to make the dough for that as well, and-”

“Cowboy,” Illya says sternly. “Go get front ready. I will wait for dishes to be done and then put them away. Then we worry about pastry cases and croissants. Have you eaten anything? I will order food.”

Napoleon lets out a long breath. “Okay, firstly, the way you say croissants is such a bastardisation of the French language that it’s almost offensive to me, and I’m American. You are _very_ Russian. Secondly…” He breathes out again, running his hands through his hair. “Yeah. I’ll go sort the front out. I can do the pastries after that.”

“Food, Cowboy,” Illya says sternly. “I am going to order something. Either tell me what you want or I will order what I want and you will have to eat it.”

“Drink it, I think you mean,” Napoleon says, the barest hint of a smile curling his lips for a moment before it’s gone again. “Are you not going to just buy two bottles of vodka?”

“Very funny, Cowboy,” Illya remarks. “Pick something. Or I will order Dominos.”

“Something fried and unhealthy,” Napoleon says immediately. “But not KFC or anything like that. _Good_ friend and unhealthy.” He groans. “God, I would kill for some chicken and waffles.”

Illya quickly looks up if chicken and waffles is actually what it sounds like once Napoleon heads out to the front of the shop, and then spends another ten minutes hunting down a restaurant that not only makes it but will also deliver. By the time he’s gotten off his phone, the dish cycle is done and he falls back into the rhythm of cleaning up, stacking up mugs and dishes on the counter.

If nothing else, London’s delivery drivers are impressively quick. Within fifteen minutes Illya is handing over a tip for a bag of food at the front door. “That smells fucking fantastic,” Napoleon says as he follows Illya into the kitchen. “What did you end up ordering?”

“You wanted chicken and waffles, I got you chicken and waffles,” Illya says, pulling out one portion and handing it over to Napoleon. He waves it in front of his face when Napoleon just stares at it and doesn’t make any move to take it. “Cowboy? It will go cold if you just stare at it.”

“You…you got me chicken and waffles?” Napoleon asks, his voice suddenly small.

Illya sets the food down on the table. “It seems a bit ridiculous to have waffles with fried chicken, but you said you wanted-”

He’s cut off abruptly when Napoleon wavers, steps forwards and then wraps his arms around him. “Cowboy? What are you doing?”

“I’m giving you a hug, you absolute idiot,” Napoleon says, his voice muffled in Illya’s shoulder. “Because I’ve had a fucking awful day and you’ve not only stayed around and helped out without asking me once why I’m pissed off, you then buy me fucking chicken and waffles. Even though I am absolutely positive that you’re not going to like them because it’s _American_ and therefore far too fried for you-”

“Cowboy,” Illya says quietly. He carefully wraps his arms around Napoleon, gently cutting him off before that slight hitch in his voice completely throws him off balance and into uncharted territories. “I think waffles should be breakfast food and not served with chicken, but I am willing to try it. We should eat now before it gets cold.”

Napoleon’s breath hitches. “You’re a good friend, Peril.”

Illya thinks briefly that maybe those words shouldn’t hit him like they do. The thought does little to stop them reverberating through his chest, an unfamiliar ache slowly spreading through him as the words sink in, wrap around the deep grooves left scored in his bones and smooth them out, just a little.

“Let’s eat, Cowboy,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terry Pratchett is one of my favourite authors and I would absolutely encourage everyone to read his books- if you want somewhere to start, I would recommend Nightwatch, it's brilliant. I know I'm going quite quick with the bonding between the two of them, both because rivalries are difficult to write when there's nothing keeping the two of them together, and because all this banter is much more fun to write. Writing Gaby and Illya's banter has also been so much fun, I've never really written the two of them as best friends before Illya and Napoleon meet and the whole sibling dynamic has been pure gold.
> 
> The moment where Napoleon realises Illya actually found him chicken and waffles to eat, is that 'uh oh' moment. If you could see his internal monologue right now, it would be something along the lines of 'oh. it's going to be you.' Illya is also definitely trusting Napoleon quite quickly. Whether this is a good idea or not, you'll just have to wait and see...


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place immediately after the end of the last one, so you might want to go back and refresh your memory about the chicken and waffles thing that happened last chapter.

Illya is picking at his waffle and trying to convince himself that it goes with the chicken when Napoleon sighs, picking at the edges of his paper plate. “I thought I saw someone I…once knew, I suppose, on the Tube this morning,” he says quietly. “You know when you see the back of someone’s head, or just a brief flash of a coat out of the corner of your eye, and for a moment you think you recognise them? I just…I thought I saw someone I knew.”

Sometimes, Illya sees the corner of a dark coat out of the corner of his eye and spins, expecting Oleg to be stalking towards him. “I know what you mean,” he replies. “Was it…were they a friend, once? This person?”

Napoleon grimaces, tearing off a corner of his paper plate and flicking it between his fingers. “Once, maybe,” he says. “When I was…” He looks up at Illya abruptly. “Remember I said I spent a few years around Europe before all of this? I wasn’t…I was a shitty person, and I did some things I’m not proud of anymore. With them. At the time, I thought we were friends. Now…I don’t know what you would call it. An enabler, maybe?”

“I don’t know that word,” Illya admits.

“Someone who…who pushes you to do something, normally something not very good to do? Who gives you the power to do something, I guess. I wanted to do it, at the time, but they…they stood at my shoulder and cheered me on.” Napoleon looks back down at the table, shaking his head. “I was a shitty person, and I don’t want to be that anymore, but I thought I saw them for a moment and it just…reminded me of all that.”

Illya studies the side of Napoleon’s face as he looks down at the table for a long moment. He abruptly wants to reach out and do something, though he’s not sure what. “Your coffee may be overpriced, Cowboy,” he says eventually, “and you may like some weird food, but you are not a…a shitty person. I have met lot of them over years. You do not compare.”

“Met _a_ lot of them over _the_ years,” Napoleon mutters, but there’s a small smile on his lips as he looks up at Illya. “Articles are your friend, Peril. But thanks. Though without knowing the shitty people you’ve known, it’s a little hard to compare.”

Illya snorts. “Believe me, you are much better than them.” He picks at his waffle again. “I am still friends with you, and definitely not friends with them. Even with all your overpriced coffee.”

Napoleon huffs a laugh. “Are you going to eat your waffle?”

Illya makes a face. “The chicken is good, but…waffles are breakfast foods.” He pushes his plate across to Napoleon. “Do you want it?”

Napoleon hesitates. “Yeah, actually, I do. Hand it over.”

Illya pushes the plate across the table. “Texas.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That is my first guess,” Illya says, pulling some more meat off his chicken with his fingers. It’s a long-ingrained instinct to pull the bones apart and get out all the meat that he can. “For where you are from.”

Napoleon hums around a mouthful of waffle. “What’s your reasoning?”

“Chicken and waffles.” Illya gestures down at the plates in front of them. “And maybe something in the accent you still have.”

“Decent guess from the available information,” Napoleon says, tearing another piece of waffle off. He grins as he pops it in his mouth. “But no. Not even close. Keep trying, Peril.” He finishes off the rest of the waffle with a sigh. “Right. I need to get started on those pastry cases.”

“I can help,” Illya says immediately. “I have nothing else to do this evening.”

Napoleon arches a brow. “Somehow, you don’t strike me as much of a baker. Sure you can handle shortcrust pastry?”

Illya has no idea what shortcrust pastry is, but he nods anyway.

Fifteen minutes later, half of the flour is on the floor and half is coating his jumper. Napoleon is doubling over laughing, trying to speak between gasps for air, and Illya is grinning helplessly. There’s a strange bubble in his chest, one that sparks bright and colourful the longer Napoleon keeps laughing as he tries to explain where Illya went wrong, and he’s not quite sure what it is, but somehow he finds that he doesn’t care.

0-o-0-o-0

The punching bag swings back towards him. Illya readies his stance and delivers a quick jab followed by a powerful right hook that sends the bag back away from him in another direction. A quick judge of the distance, and then a side kick, driving the top of his foot into the bag. Sweat drips down the back of his neck and soaks the wrappings around his wrists as he counters the swing with another kick, pivoting on the ball of his foot and sliding back into a stance as the punching bag swings wildly on the chain.

Illya catches it, resting against the bag for a moment and he heaves a breath. There’s an ache in his shoulders that he relishes, that quiets everything around him for a few moments. Maybe in a few minutes someone will wander in here looking for a challenge, and Illya can dust off his judo for a few rounds.

His phone on the bench to one side buzzes and cuts through the moment. Illya wipes at the back of his neck with a towel as he picks it up with a frown. He doesn’t recognise the number flashing up on the screen as it rings, doesn’t even immediately recognise the country code at the front of it, but answers it anyway.

“Hello?”

There’s a rustle over the phone. Illya can make out muffled background noise over the phone, the sound of cars going past, people talking in what sounds like Spanish or Portuguese. There’s a brief sigh, and then a voice speaking Russian that he would recognise anywhere.

“Illya. It’s me.”

The floor drops out from underneath him. It’s easier than anything to slip into Russian. “Markos.” He draws a breath, trying not to grip his phone to the point that the case cracks again. “It’s been a while. Are you-”

“I don’t have long, Illya,” Markos says. “I borrowed this phone from a woman who thinks I’m calling my friend to let him know my own phone got taken.” There’s the barest ghost of a laugh over the line. “Which is almost true.”

Illya frowns. If Markos has to borrow or steal phones just to get in contact with him, Oleg must be cracking down harder than ever. “Are you in danger?”

“Constantly,” Markos says. “As always. I’ll be fine, Illya. More importantly, _she_ is fine, and as long as I keep doing this then that will continue.” Illya hears the sharp breath over the line, the slight waver in his voice. “How are you, Illya? I heard rumours about...a certain trip a few weeks ago.”

“Broken leg, nothing more,” Illya says as he wipes at his face with the towel. “I’m fine. Cast came off a week ago, and I’ll be back out soon. I’ve enjoyed the down time, I suppose.”

That’s not quite true, but he knows what Markos is after. A few moments of normalcy, a few moments when Illya can distract him from the looming threats that Moscow still hangs over his head. Illya dredges up a few stories from the past few weeks to tell him in the few minutes that they have. It’s worth it to hear Markos laugh, if only briefly, to hear his voice lighten for a few moments.

“Are you okay?” Illya asks when he runs out of stories that are safe over an unsecured line. “Where are you?”

“I’m fine, Illya,” Markos says quickly. “I don’t have much time. Just…keep your people away from Bolivia for the next week. Two weeks, to be safe. Don’t…don’t get involved.”

Illya knows better than to ask Markos what he is about to do. “I’ll do my best. And if- it’s not impossible, Markos. It isn’t. You know that whatever I can do to help, I will do.”

“I know, Illya,” Markos says. “I know. I’m not planning on letting myself get killed anytime soon. Just…be wary of Bolivia for a week or two. Please.”

“I will,” Illya says. “Be careful. Get in touch with me when you can. And tell her I say hello when you next have the chance.”

“Oh, I always do,” Markos says. “Take care, Illya.”

“Take care, Markos,” Illya replies, and then all he hears is the dial tone.

There are meetings to attend and intelligence reports to read, mission plans to be drawn up and readied. He can’t spend hours wondering about the best way to break the one of the only friends he had in Moscow out from under Oleg’s thumb, running different scenarios through his head in an effort to find something that might work.

Besides, he’s been over all the most probable plans before, run them through in his head over and over again with no changes to their small chances of success. He knows he can’t just storm Moscow, grab Markos, and run. He can’t do anything until Markos moves first. It has to be his decision.

It doesn’t make it any easier, sometimes.

Gaby is at her desk in their office when he gets up there. “Please tell me you’ve showered if you’ve been in the gym,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “I will chase you out of here if you’re going to stink this place up.”

Illya resists the sudden childish urge to stick his tongue out at her. “I showered,” he mutters. “Stop acting like you don’t make this office smell like engine oil and solder half the time anyway.” He stuffs his gym bag under his desk. “Has Waverly said anything about going back into field soon?”

“He’s being cryptic as usual, but there’s a general strategy meeting with the other heads in a few minutes,” Gaby reminds him. “Which we should probably get going to if we want to get good seats.”

There’ll only be about twenty people in the room, various senior agents and analysts reviewing the current intelligence situation and deciding some distribution of resources, but it still pays to get a seat near Waverly. Gaby and Illya are the most senior field agents in the building, but people have gotten wise to their intimidation tactics, and don’t tend to give up their seats when glared at anymore.

It would be frustrating, but Illya can’t find it in himself to get annoyed when the same people offer doughnuts in the break room or gently tease him over illegible mission reports. Nobody would have ever dared to do that in Moscow.

Waverly is already there when they arrive, a cup of tea at his elbow. Gaby and Illya claim seats about a third of the way down the table, spreading their folders out in front of them. Gaby sticks her tongue out at the head analyst forced to sit further down when Gaby all but steals the chair out from under her. “Better luck next time.”

“Children,” Waverly says mildly, not looking up from the open file in front of him. “If everyone’s here? Let’s start by reviewing the recent activity in Cuba.”

The meeting carries on. Illya tunes out some of the information not relevant to him, or things that he’ll be briefed on in further detail if he and Gaby end up getting involved. He tries not to think of Markos, of what Oleg might be holding over his head and what he might be doing in Bolivia, but it’s hard not to remember the slight desperation in his voice.

“Now,” Waverly says, shuffling some papers around and pulling out another file. “Something that has recently come to my attention is a developing situation in Bolivia. Satellite images have picked up troop movements through the jungles. Unfortunately, canopy coverage is too thick to fully determine the scale of this movement or who, precisely, is moving.”

“There is political unrest there at the moment,” someone around the table says. “It is likely that it is related. We have few contacts in Bolivia, but there are some people we can use as inroads. A small strike group would have a reasonably successful chance at conducting reconnaissance to determine the scale and type of this troop movement.”

“We can put people in the capital as well, if we need to,” another person says. “Though there would be less technical support in La Paz if the situation with using the British Embassies as cover is still…delicate.”

“No.”

Everyone at the table falls silent and turn towards Illya. “We should delay,” he gets out. “See what situation is before going in on the ground there.”

“You’re normally the first one to advocate going in- how do the Americans put it? Guns blazing?” Waverly says mildly. “Why the change in heart?”

Illya grips at the edge of the table. “I have contact in Bolivia,” he says, not looking away from Waverly’s gaze. “They have informed me that there is situation developing in Bolivia, and that we should avoid being involved on the ground for at least a week, preferably two.”

Gaby digs an elbow into his side. “You didn’t tell me about this,” she hisses at him, as Waverly arches a brow.

“And what is the situation developing?” Waverly asks. “Did your contact give you this information?”

Illya shakes his head, still not looking away. “I have no information other than that we should stay out of Bolivia for the moment, Sir. But I trust them.”

“Who are they?” someone asks. “And why can’t they tell you anything more.”

Illya doesn’t look away from Waverly. He’s not sure that he can look away. “I can’t tell you that,” he says steadily. “Sir.”

Waverly rubs at his chin. “I would like some more information about your source and contact before I decide to keep out of this situation, Kuryakin.”

Gaby elbows him again, but Illya shakes his head. “I can’t tell you, Sir. It would put my contact in unnecessary danger.”

Waverly doesn’t look satisfied. “We’ll shelve the topic for now, then. Kuryakin, a word in my office once this is finished.”

Illya forces himself to get up and follow Waverly once the meeting is over. He isn’t going to be harshly reprimanded. Waverly is nothing like Oleg, who would have crucified him just for speaking out against him, let alone in front of anyone else. He’s going to be fine.

It doesn’t stop him from hesitating for a moment as he crosses the threshold. “Have a seat, Kuryakin,” Waverly says. His voice is mild, but that means nothing. He always sounds mild, easy to talk to. It might convince someone that manipulating him would be easy, right up until they run straight into a solid wall that they had no idea was there.

Illya sits down, keeping quiet as Waverly sits behind his desk. “I’ll be straight with you, Kuryakin,” he says. “Will you tell me who this contact is?”

A shiver runs through him at openly defying Waverly, but he holds his ground. “No, Sir. I can’t.”

Waverly nods, like he was expecting this answer. “Will you tell me why you cannot?”

That makes Illya pause. “It would- their superiors are aware of our…association, but not the extent of it, Sir,” he says eventually. “And definitely not that they are giving me any information at all. Rumours…rumours travel quickly. Very quickly. Even a rumour would put them in significant danger. And the- the people around them.”

“And you trust the information they have passed you?” Waverly asks. “As scant as it is?”

“I trust them with my life,” Illya says immediately. “Based on who they are and what they said, I think the situation in Bolivia may get very complicated, very quickly, and any agents would be at considerable risk if they were on ground.”

Waverly hums. “Very well, then. We shall suspend operations in Bolivia and continue to monitor the situation from afar. Let me know if you receive any more information from your contact.”

Illya blinks. “I- that is it?”

“I trust your judgement, Kuryakin,” Waverly says mildly, a small smile curling his lips. “Your instincts, as well as your information, are usually correct. If you say that agents in Bolivia would be in an unacceptable amount of danger, then I will take your word for it and not ask for more information on your contact.”

Illya blinks again. “I- Sir. I will take full responsibility if-”

Waverly waves one hand. “None of that.” He pauses in the midst of shuffling some of the files on his desk. “I am not your former handler, Kuryakin,” he says gently. “And you will never be reprimanded for bringing concerns to my attention or using the information that you have acquired, especially when it comes to putting our agents in unnecessary danger. Or for protecting your contacts, especially if they are who I think they might be.” He holds up one hand before Illya can say anything. “I will not make guesses. If I am right, then I understand the jeopardy that they could be put in. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir,” Illya says, breathing through the relief as he gets to his feet. “I understand. Thank you.”

Gaby is waiting for him in their office. “So,” she drawls, drawing the word out. “He’s in Bolivia.”

Illya sighs. “He is,” he admits. “He called this morning. I think Oleg’s leash is shorter than it has been for long while. At least Waverly listened to me.”

“He didn’t ask, then?”

“I think he has guessed,” Illya says reluctantly. “But he said he would not ask.” He shrugs. “Oleg would have raked me over coals for the name, so anything Waverly does is better.”

Gaby gives him a look. “Illya. Darling. For one, I really, _really_ hope that wasn’t literal. For two, I distinctly remember having a conversation with you where we came to the conclusion that anything Oleg has done can’t be used as a good metric for anything that Waverly does. Or that anyone does, really, outside of the dictators and terrorists and the generally awful people we run into out in the field.”

Illya rolls his eyes at her. “Of course it was not literal, chop shop girl.” He shrugs. “Hot coals are pain to get hot enough to be effective in winter, and you have to go outside to use them.”

Gaby stares at him for a long moment. “Okay, now you’re fucking with me. Please tell me you’re fucking with me.”

Illya is; Oleg had always preferred not to use physical methods of punishment or anything that might severely impede them in the field, and hot coals are an outlandish torture method relegated mostly to stories now. But it’s also fun to screw around with Gaby sometimes. She glares at him, but Illya has had years of practice with her various looks, and she gives up when he just shrugs again.

“Are we taking bets?” he asks after a few minutes. “On where next? What do you want if you win?”

Gaby hums. “There’s a new ice-skating rink open in Greenwich. I want you to teach me how to skate this year.”

“You’ve never learned how to skate?” Illya asks. “You’re German. You have snow, and ice, and skating.”

“I’m a Berliner,” Gaby clarifies. “I know it’s probably heresy to be Russian and not know how to do the various snow-related activities that you have, but no, I never learnt how to skate. If I’m right, you have to teach me how to skate properly.” She leans back in her chair. “What about you?”

“Bottle of vodka,” Illya says with a shrug. Gaby spins around, pinning him with a look.

“Absolutely not,” she says. “You don’t even drink that much, and the bottles just collect dust in your flat. Pick something that you actually want.”

Illya knows that Gaby spots the moment that he thinks of something. “Tell me,” Gaby says. “Tell me now, Illya. Tell me, tell me, tell me, te-”

“God, fine,” Illya snaps. He glances away, drumming his fingers on his desk. “There is…you have friends at Imperial, yes? They are holding a lecture on new theories in quantum mechanics in a few months. All of the leading physicists will be there. I…I would like to go.”

Gaby grins. “I can make enquiries, or bribe people. Whichever is easier. Now, what’s your guess?”

Illya runs back through the recent intelligence in his head. “Kashmir.”

“Ooh, interesting,” Gaby says. “I’m betting on…Mexico. Again.”

An hour later, when the file comes through and Illya flips it open to see an annotated map of Kashmir, Gaby just grins and punches him in the shoulder. “I’ll call my friend at Imperial when we land back after whatever this debacle turns into. Race you to the plane?”

Illya is about to reach for his go bag when he pauses abruptly. “Give me five minutes. There is something I have to do first.”

Napoleon is just appearing from the kitchen when he makes it downstairs and across the street, a tray of scones in his hands. “Hey, Peril,” he says. “Try these, it’s a new recipe I’m trying.”

“I can’t stop,” Illya says quickly, even as he takes the scone Napoleon holds out. “I have to go away for work, Gaby too. We leave in an hour. I just…wanted to let you know.”

“Oh.” Napoleon sets the tray down, wiping his hands off on an apron that Illya suddenly notices is patterned with tiny cactuses. “How long do you think you’re going to be gone?”

“Could be a week, could be two months,” Illya says with a grimace. “Hopefully not two months. But…have you got pen, and piece of paper?” Napoleon rummages around the counter until he finds them, and Illya scrawls down the number to his personal mobile, the one that between him and Gaby is so heavily encrypted that he sometimes worries he will get locked out of it one day. It’s safe enough to text on it. “Here. That’s my number. I will- if we are going to get stuck out there for a while, I will try and let you know.”

Napoleon pulls out his own phone, pulling the scrap towards him. A few moments later and Illya’s phone buzzes in his pocket. “There,” Napoleon says with a smile. “Now I can complain about irritating customers even when you’re in another country.”

“I look forwards to it, Cowboy,” Illya says. He hadn’t meant to say that, and takes a bite out of the scone in his hand to try and cover the blush he can feel creeping up his cheeks.

Napoleon’s grin widens. “Shouldn’t you be packing or something? Instead of hanging around here chatting to me?”

“Don’t push your luck, Cowboy,” Illya mutters around the mouthful of scone. His phone buzzes again, this time with a text from Gaby that’s just a frown emoji. “Also, you are too heavy handed with vanilla. Use more salt, and a little lemon zest, next time for scones. I have to go.”

“Have fun wherever you’re going,” Napoleon calls after him, and then the door swings shut behind him and he’s running across the street back to UNCLE.

Gaby is waiting in their office, their go bags on her desk. “Really, Illya?” she asks when she sees the remnants of the scone in his hand. “Really?”

“Shut up, chop shop girl,” Illya mutters. “I just wanted to let him know we will be away. Give him my number in case we are gone for a while.”

He immediately knows that was the wrong thing to say when Gaby’s face lights up with glee. “Exchanging numbers now, are we? Planning to text him in the middle of a firefight, tell him his scones are too dry? Ask him about his day?”

Illya groans. He can feel the red returning all too easily to his cheeks. “You are not going to shut up about this, are you?”

“Nope,” Gaby says. She grabs their bags, pulling them over one shoulder and then linking her arm with Illya’s. “And we have a long plane journey ahead of us, so you’d better get used to it.”

0-o-0-o-0

“Are you _texting?_ ”

Illya jumps. He quickly closes his phone, the pale blue light of the screen disappearing. “No,” he mutters, looking back through the binoculars he has propped up on the lip of the roof. “He still hasn’t moved.”

“Of course he isn’t going to move, this stakeout is completely pointless and we’re only here because Interpol are being their usual bureaucratic selves and we can’t move forwards until he’s ruled out as the contact,” Gaby says with a scowl. She repositions her own binoculars. “But you were definitely texting.”

Illya resists the urge to rest his forehead down on the edge of the roof, or to shift around again to try and get comfortable. He’d pulled a roll mat out from his kit before they left, to try and take some edge off the solid concrete he knew they would be lying on all night, perched high up on a hotel roof opposite a walled mansion. After hours lying on the roof, it doesn’t make much difference anymore. If he starts moving, he knows he’ll just want to get up and walk off the ache. And it would just be his luck that the moment he steps away, the mark turns out to not be innocent and makes a move.

Gaby nudges him. “Were you texting Napoleon?” she asks slyly. “Is he keeping you company on this incredibly boring stakeout?”

“It is none of your business, chop shop girl,” Illya mutters. He can see her grin widen out of the corner of his eye.

“So, you _were_ texting him,” she says. “Well, someone seems a little infatuated.”

Illya chokes on his own spit. “ _Infatuated_? I- Gaby, what do you- I am not _infatuated_ ,” he hisses, his cheeks hot. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

Gaby hums. “I’m sure you don’t,” she says. “But, on the off chance that you do and you’re just trying to throw me off, you should know that Solo’s face lights up every time you walk into his shop.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Illya scoffs. He pauses. “Does it?”

Gaby’s grin widens. “I went in there once to grab a bite to eat and a coffee when you were out training on the Salisbury plains, and he lasted about twenty seconds before asking where you were.” She nudges him. “Keep doing whatever you’re doing. It’s working.”

“I’m not _doing_ anything,” Illya protests. He refocuses the binoculars, hoping that their mark will do something illegal and save him from having this conversation, but he’s still just sitting there watching TV. “We’re just friends.”

“For now,” Gaby says slyly.

Illya looks away for a brief moment from the binoculars to glare at her. “Stop it. I don’t even know if he’s-”

“Gay?” Gaby finishes for him. “Or attracted to men? Well, he once said something appreciative about that actor from those Marvel movies, but that could just be good taste. I’ll ask him next time I see him.”

“You will do _no such thing_ ,” Illya hisses at her, turning back to the binoculars. “Stop it. Leave it alone.”

He can feel Gaby’s glare on him, but he doesn’t look away from the binoculars. “Leave it alone, Gaby. It is just…it is nothing. It won’t be a problem. I won’t let it affect anything.”

Gaby hums, and even that sounds judgemental. “Maybe it should.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

Gaby sighs. “Illya. Darling. Do you know why you are one of the best in the world at what we do? I’ll answer for you. It’s because for literally a decade, you have done nothing else but dedicate yourself to this life. Solo is probably the first friend you’ve had outside of our job.” She reaches out and grasps Illya’s arm. “I’m not trying to be mean, darling. I’m just telling the truth. And I am actually very proud of you for putting yourself out there enough to be friends with Solo, enough to even maybe have a little bit of a crush on him.”

Illya wants to pull away, but he doesn’t. Gaby gently pats his arm. “I know that I don’t know a fraction of all that went on in Moscow, but I’m pretty sure that that place told you over and over again that there was no life outside the job, that you had to commit everything you had at every moment to the game. Am I right?”

Illya loosens his grip around the binoculars. “That was one of the ones they were very fond of beating into us, yes,” he mutters reluctantly. “Doesn’t mean it was not true.”

“I think the fact that you’re friends with Solo now proves that it isn’t true,” Gaby counters. “You’re still just as effective now as you were before you met him. It might even make you a better agent.” She sighs when Illya doesn’t say anything else, and her grip on his arm vanishes. “Just think about it, darling. And text him back. I’ll watch for a while.”

She brings up her own binoculars and stares through them with a focus that had been completely absent only a few moments ago. Illya stares out at nothing.

He has known Napoleon now for two months. Waverly has said nothing about any drop in performance during that time. He can’t think of a moment where he’s screwed up, where he’s made a mistake that would have had Oleg threatening him with his father’s fate again. He isn’t even behind on paperwork, despite now leaving work and going across the street most evenings.

He sighs, and picks up his phone. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Gaby grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon does have a past. Illya is starting to realise that he may have a bit of a crush on Napoleon, but he has absolutely no idea what to do with this. Gaby is loving this entire thing. This may or may not cause some angst later on (if you know me, you know what the answer is to this).
> 
> Markos is in this story because I was writing it as I was publishing The Death of the Author, and I really liked Markos as a character despite the fact that he's been dead for the entirety of both Narrative Casualties and The Death of the Author, so I wanted to give writing him a go when he's actually alive. He is also the reason this story is going to have a sequel because I couldn't fit everything I wanted to do with his plotline into this story. For new readers, this may seem a bit extreme, but for everyone who's been following me a while, you absolutely knew this was going to happen and if you're surprised, it's on you.
> 
> Also, to everyone who commented on the final The Death of the Author chapter a couple weeks ago, saying how much they loved the story and how much they would love it if I wrote more- I'm writing more! I'm working on a story based on what happens during each Pride month across the entire time Illya and Napoleon are at UNCLE and then up to and past the events that occur in The Death of the Author, so Dmitri, Cassie and René will be in the latter part of the story. It's getting written at a fair pace right now, but I currently don't have an estimate for when it'll be published because I have this horrible habit of underestimating story lengths and don't trust myself with that anymore.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are much, much loved.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for vague discussions of bad things happening on missions to other people, discussions of Illya's past, which is similar to canon, and mention of death/graveyards.
> 
> Backstory time! Only Illya's at the moment, I'm going to make you suffer before you get anything substantial for Napoleon's backstory. To new readers, this may seem like I'm joking. I'm not. Trust me (and anyone else who has been reading my fics long enough to know how I like to write).

They’re in Kashmir for three weeks before the mission is finished and Waverly pulls them out. They’re in London for less than a week, a whirlwind of tying up loose ends from Kashmir whilst poring over intelligence coming across their desks, before Waverly has them on a plane out to Copenhagen. They’re there for an exhausting five days and then there’s another plane waiting for them out on the tarmac of a nondescript airfield.

Illya sleeps for a few hours on the plane. When he wakes up there’s a new text on his phone from Napoleon, and the following argument about the divergence of the Labour party leadership from the views of the majority of their base keeps him occupied until they touch down in another country, another file waiting for them and another mission teetering precariously on the brink of collapse.

After two weeks of gathering intelligence the mission comes abruptly to a head. Gaby pulls off some insane driving, Illya hanging out of the side of the car and shooting out the tires of their pursuers, and they leave the local authorities to wrap up the aftermath as Waverly ushers them onto another plane.

Gaby falls asleep as soon as they sit down, wrapping herself up in a blanket and resting her head on Illya’s lap.

Illya stares down at his phone for a moment. He wants to text Napoleon and tell him about the missions. Tell him how sometimes the exhaustion seems to drag him endlessly down, but it relinquishes its grip when they save another person, when they finish another mission and get to know that they’ve left people a little bit safer. That it’s been easier to keep going recently, that Gaby makes him laugh more now out undercover and that he made a joke, last week, that surprised her so much she snorted water out of her nose. That Moscow’s shadow slowly recedes, day by day, with every step away from it that he manages to take.

He can’t. He knows that he can’t. There are strict rules as to who they can inform of their real lives, and Napoleon doesn’t come close to clearing them. Not yet. Not ever, without some sort of miraculous courage that Illya doesn’t think he’ll ever get.

He manages to text Napoleon back once after they land, and then the mission takes priority. Illya gets dropped into the jungle and spends three days hacking his way through to a remote prison camp to extract an asset whilst avoiding the paramilitary group that get wind he’s in their territory. Gaby is in his ear some of the time, but most of the time is away playing diplomat and extracting information from corrupt politicians without them even knowing.

The asset is extracted with only one short gunfight, and then Illya is on another plane, this time to Brussels. Waverly is waiting for them when they land, a file in his hand and a vague promise that they’re going back to London after they’re finished here. Next to him, Gaby breathes a quiet sigh of relief. They’ve been going nonstop for nearly two months now, and Illya can see it in Gaby’s reluctance when she gets up at three in the morning for surveillance, the bags under both their eyes just starting to become permanent. The old scar in his shoulder, a stray bullet in China nearly six years ago, is just beginning to start to ache.

Of course, it’s in Brussels where everything goes to hell.

Investigations of a hedge fund manager, suspected of bribery and blackmail of a politician, ends up exposing a human trafficking ring. Gaby and Illya lead the strike team that storms the compound outside of Brussels, and they’re the ones that throw open the first shipping container once the mercenaries are lying dead or unconscious around them.

Illya distantly hears some of the team behind him stagger off and retch into the dirt. There’s bile in his own throat, but he swallows it down. There are people that still need help.

He steps inside, Gaby at his shoulder.

Waverly finds them hours later, sat together on a crate towards the edge of the compound. Gaby is slowly rolling a bottle of water around in her hands. Illya breathes in steadily through his mouth, and tries to convince himself that he’s far enough from the crates that he can’t smell them anymore.

“Good job,” Waverly says, that tough British exterior cracking briefly and letting a glimmer of sympathy through in tightly pressed lips. “Many of those people are still alive because of your actions.”

Gaby hums, but doesn’t say anything. She’s still staring out at the trees just visible outside the compound. “Where to next?” Illya forces himself to ask, his voice falling achingly flat on the dirt.

“Goodness, after all this you’re both heading straight back to London,” Waverly says. He sticks his hands in his pockets. “I would ask you to take some time off, but every time I do you still end up in the office anyway. So, it’s paperwork and training for at least a month. The closest you’ll let yourselves get to down time, I suppose.” The beginnings of a smile briefly hover at the corners of his lips before it falls away. “Well done. I’ll see you both back in London in a few days.”

Illya watches him walk away. Next to him, Gaby draws in a deep breath and hands him the water bottle. “I know we’ve seen these things before, but it’s always hard,” she says softly. “Especially…”

“Especially when there are children,” Illya finishes for her. He sips at the water. “I know, chop shop girl.”

Illya doesn’t know how long they sit there, the rough wood of the crate digging into their thighs as they pass the water bottle back and forth between them. It feels like he only blinks before there’s an Interpol agent approaching them and guiding them to a jeep, another blink until they’re sat in a conference room, bad coffee the only thing keeping them going as they debrief over and over again to a blur of people in suits.

Another blink, and they’re on the plane as it touches down, the skyline of London just visible through the clouds rolling in. Gaby raises her head from where she’d been napping on Illya’s shoulder. “Back to the daily grind,” she murmurs. “I need a drink.”

“Waverly wants debrief in office again,” Illya reminds her. “With…MI6, I think. I will get us coffee first, we will sit through debrief, and then we can go home and drink.”

The bell over the door chimes as Illya pushes it open, the smell of coffee and something rich and buttery just out of the oven gently curling around and drawing him in. Napoleon looks up from the counter where he’s just sliding a tray of croissants into place. “Long time no see, Peril,” he says, a smile coming across his face. “How are you doing?”

Illya can’t find it within himself to smile back. He drops heavily into a seat at the counter, watching as Napoleon’s smile dims as is replaced with something that looks a lot like concern. “Everything okay?” he asks.

“How much caffeine can you legally give me in a drink?” Illya asks instead. “And one for Gaby as well.”

“You’re starting early,” Napoleon comments. “Legally, no limit, but in the interests of not giving you a heart attack I’m limiting you to four shots of espresso.”

“Early?” Illya glances at his watch, before realising that he doesn’t remember the last time he changed it. It’s light outside, but that grey kind of London day that is impossible to tell the time from. “What time is it?”

“A bit before eight,” Napoleon replies, starting to fiddle with the coffee machine. “You seem really out of it. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Only just landed,” Illya says. He resists the urge to pillow his head on the counter, but only just. Now that he’s sat down, he’s not sure how he’s going to get back up again. “Gone through two- no, three different time zones in past two weeks.”

“Work been busy, then?” Napoleon asks. “You do look exhausted, though the coffee also sort of gave it away.” It’s the understatement of the decade, but Illya just nods, his head feeling heavier with every movement. Napoleon hums. “When did you last get some sleep? And naps don’t count.”

Illya shrugs. “What day is it?”

That makes Napoleon pause, espresso wobbling precariously in his hand before he remembers and puts it down. “Thursday,” he says cautiously.

Illya runs through the past few days, trying as best as he can to account for the time difference. “Thirty hours?” he guesses. “No, maybe thirty-five. I definitely slept on Tuesday night. I think.”

“Christ, Illya, go _home_ ,” Napoleon says, leaning over the counter. There’s a frown on his face as he reaches out to grasp Illya’s arm for a moment. “You can’t seriously think you should go into work right now.”

Illya stares at the hand on his arm. It’s tempting, but MI6 are waiting for him and Gaby, and what they found in Brussels is important enough that he can’t just avoid them. “Things got…complicated, where we were last,” he says when Napoleon won’t drop the concerned look on his face. “There are things I need to do before I can go home.” And drink enough vodka to fall asleep without nightmares, hopefully. Though that never does go quite to plan.

Napoleon doesn’t look convinced, but he lets go and finishes up making the coffees anyway. “They won’t taste the best,” he warns as he pushes them over the counter. “Leaving espresso shots to stand like that means that they go bitter, so dump a lot of sugar or cream in there if you want to.”

Illya’s lips twist in a wry smile as he puts down a ten pound note. “I spent years eating ration packs and base meals,” he replies. “I can cope with my coffee being bitter.”

Napoleon pauses halfway through wiping down the counter. When he turns back to him, there’s a complicated expression on his face, curiosity mixed in with something else, something gone too quickly for Illya to really register it. “Military?”

“Ex- military,” Illya clarifies. “Russian army until…until I came here. Three years ago, now, and I still remember taste of ration packs.”

Napoleon lets out a short bark of laughter. “No, it’s not you,” he says at Illya’s expression. “It’s just…I was in the US military for a few years. Joined straight out of high school, did nearly two back to back tours in Afghanistan before…well, before I got fed up of it and left. Strange, that we’ve known each other this long and it’s never come up before.”

“You- you were military?” Illya asks. He’s never noticed it before. He’s normally able to recognise anyone who has been a soldier before. There’s a certain way that they move, that they watch exits or position themselves in crowded rooms. A certain tension that can run through them, only visible to someone who knows how to look, who has the same tension sometimes thrumming under their skin.

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen that in Napoleon. If it is there, then it’s very well hidden.

“Not for a long while now,” Napoleon replies, oblivious to the thoughts suddenly running through Illya’s head. “And not something I ever particularly want to go back to.” He cracks a sudden grin. “Those ration packs really were the worst.”

Illya glances at his watch before remembering that it’s still wrong. “I need to get going,” he says, picking up the coffees. “I will see you later.”

“Make sure you go home at a reasonable time,” Napoleon says sternly. “I’m not above texting you relentlessly until you do.”

Illya rolls his eyes. “I will come down before I leave, Cowboy,” he says over his shoulder. “Then you can mother me in person instead of over phone.”

“I will do it if nobody else does,” Napoleon shouts after him. Illya gives him one last half-hearted glare, and then the door swings shut behind him.

Gaby makes grabbing motions as soon as she sees him with coffee in hand. “Oh, you are wonderful,” she says. “Is it bad form to drink half of this in one go?”

“We are long past bad form for you,” Illya replies absently. “Did you know Cowboy was in military?”

Gaby pauses, coffee cup halfway to her lips. “Huh,” she says slowly. “I don’t see it. He doesn’t act like it.”

“I didn’t see it either,” Illya says quietly. “He says he left long time ago, though.”

“That’s probably it,” Gaby says, sipping at her coffee. “Not everyone gets sucked into the job like we do, like you did. Some people leave, and just…move on.”

It doesn’t sound possible. But Illya thinks of Napoleon in the kitchen, laughing as he tries to teach him how to make shortcrust pastry, flour strewn across the table. Napoleon making coffees with a detached efficiency, back to the door as he steams milk and still manages to keep a conversation going. The complete absence of anything dangerous beyond hot coffee in that shop, the plush armchairs and shelves now filled with books lining one wall.

Maybe it is possible. But Illya still doesn’t have any idea how it’s done.

0-o-0-o-0

He doesn’t tell Napoleon what happened in Brussels. He wouldn’t be able to find the words to try and explain it to a civilian even if he was allowed to, but Napoleon seems to guess at a little of it anyway. At least, when Illya drags himself in, only just managing to get himself out of bed after a night spent staring at the wall hoping the nightmares might leave him alone for once, Napoleon has a large coffee and a few slices of toast from fresh bread he made that morning ready and waiting for him.

He doesn’t ask what keeps the bags under Illya’s eyes for days at a time, doesn’t try and make him talk about anything. It should be nothing new to Illya, after Moscow where everyone avoided talking about the things they did, even when Oleg couldn’t hear them, but somehow it is.

Maybe it’s because this time there’s nothing from Napoleon but a gentle reassurance that if Illya wants to say anything, he will listen. It’s a world away from Moscow.

Since him and Gaby first left for Kashmir, London kept creaking towards spring. It’s pouring it down one evening as Illya darts across the street from the UNCLE back entrance across to Napoleon’s, the sky finally still light as he pulls the door open to the now familiar smell of coffee and pastries. There’s a muffled clatter and a curse from the kitchen, so Illya ducks behind the counter. “Cowboy?”

At first he can’t see anyone, and then Napoleon appears from behind the central table. “Hey, Peril,” he says. “How long are your arms?”

“I- what?”

“Your arms, Peril,” Napoleon repeats. “I dropped my favourite chef’s knife and somehow managed to kick it under this table, and I can’t reach it.”

Illya scoffs. “Why send in American to do Russian job, Cowboy,” he mutters as he pulls his jacket off. “Hold this.”

“It’s soaking wet, hang it up somewhere,” Napoleon responds. “Did you stand out in the rain for a while, get in some stoic Russian brooding time before coming here?”

Illya tosses his coat at him. “Do you want your knife back or not?” He crouches down, peering down the thin gap under the table. “Besides, it is English repressing of emotions that is done in rain. Russian brooding needs snow and pine trees. Or poplar trees, if you are in Moscow.”

The knife is at an awkward angle under the table, just out of reach. Illya shifts to a better angle, trying to flatten his shoulder down more. “Nearly got it,” he mutters.

“You know, you’re surprisingly flexible for such a tall person,” Napoleon remarks. Illya can just about see his legs from where he’s leant up against the counter.

“I was black belt in judo,” Illya mutters as his fingertips scrabble at the handle of the knife. He presses himself down to the floor a little further, wincing as his shoulder protests at the movement. “You have to be flexible to do that.”

“Was?” Napoleon asks. “You don’t do it anymore?”

“Not since I left Moscow,” Illya says, and then winces again. He hadn’t meant to say that. Apparently, around Napoleon, he sometimes doesn’t know any better.

Napoleon hums. Illya sees him shift slightly out of the corner of his eye. “Seems a lot of things changed when you left,” he says cautiously.

“I nearly have it,” Illya says, ignoring Napoleon’s comment. The knife handle is just within reach now, and he tries to edge it closer with his fingertips.

“Do you miss it?” Napoleon asks. “Moscow, I mean.”

“Sometimes,” Illya says. He winces. He hadn’t meant to say that either. His fingertips brush against the knife handle, and he inches it closer to where he can get a grip.

“Do you go back often?” Napoleon asks. His legs shift where Illya can just about see them, shoes stupidly shiny for working in a coffee shop.

“I can’t,” Illya mutters.

“Sorry, what?”

Illya finally gets a grip on the knife and pulls it out, setting it down on the counter with a clatter. “I _can’t_ ,” he snaps. “I can’t go back. It nearly killed me to leave, but staying would have killed me anyway, or as good as. My one friend I still have there is stuck there, and if he isn’t careful then he’ll end up gone just like I would have, had I not abandoned everything I ever had and left my entire life behind to come here, and I _cannot go back_. I haven’t seen my mother’s grave in _three years_.”

He heaves a breath. “I haven’t seen her grave in three years.”

He knew this. Of course he knew this. He just hadn’t realised until those words left his mouth. Three years. Three years since he last slipped through the old iron gates of the small cemetery, tucked away towards the outskirts of the Khamovniki district, the sound of the river just audible in the dusk. Three years since he bought a bouquet of the tulips that she had loved, in her last years, from the flower market near his apartment, and placed them down on the headstone. Three years since he had last stood there and apologised for all the things that had never been his fault.

Even longer, of course, since he sat at her bedside and talked about nothing until his voice was hoarse and there was a smile on her face again.

There’s a gentle touch at his elbow. Illya flinches, only to find Napoleon in front of him.

Exhaustion floods his body as the brief adrenaline fades, and Illya slumps against the wall behind him. He doesn’t mean to, but his legs are shaking and they can’t quite hold him up anymore. “I’m sorry,” he gets out. “I- I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing for you to be sorry for,” Napoleon says. “I’m sorry. For not leaving alone what was obviously a sensitive topic. And…I’m sorry that you can’t go back to Moscow. And I’m sorry about your mother.” He runs a hand through his hair, visibly bothered by something. “I’m sorry, Peril.”

Illya runs those words through his head again after hearing them, but they don’t make any more sense than the first time. “Why should you be sorry?” he asks. “I don’t- what is it to you?”

Napoleon shrugs. Some of the tension slowly seems to leave his body the longer that Illya just stands there, leaning against the wall and trying not to let his legs tremble. “I guess I’m sorry for you. It upset me on behalf of you.”

Illya stares at him. Those words don’t make any sense either. “But _why_?”

Napoleon lets out a short huff of laughter. “Why? Because you’re my friend, Illya. I want you to be happy. And it upsets me when I think you aren’t.”

The air that he’s just managed to get back is knocked out of him in one breath. It wasn’t tension, that line in Napoleon’s shoulders that has slowly faded the longer they’ve stood here but still hasn’t disappeared entirely. It was _worry_. For him.

Illya draws in a shaky breath, and then another, until the weight on his chest eases a little. “I’m sorry, Cowboy,” he says again.

“You don’t have to be,” Napoleon says firmly. “Come on. I’ll make some tea.”

He’s silent as he heads out to the counter and brews caj mali, setting one mug down in front of Illya and another for himself at their usual coffee table. He stays silent for a few more minutes, staring down at the table. Illya breathes in the smell of caj mali.

“Did you mean it?” Napoleon asks abruptly. He sets his mug down, the tea nearly spilling over the edge. “What you said…about leaving Moscow. Was it true?”

The words that had spilled from his lips come back to him in fragments, jagged edges not quite fitting together. But it’s enough for Illya to know that he meant every word of it. “Yes,” he gets out. “I- it is true.”

He sees Napoleon breathe out slowly, pressing his hands to the sides of his mug. “I really don’t want to pry, Peril,” he says eventually. “Or ask questions when I know you don’t want me to. But…are things better for you, now? Have you got that, at least?”

Illya stares down at his mug of tea. “My father was a politician. He was arrested when I was ten.”

He hears a slight intake of breath from across the coffee table. He doesn’t look up. If he did, he doesn’t think he would be able to keep talking.

“They said it was embezzlement of government money, that he was corrupt. Maybe they were telling the truth, maybe they just wanted him out of way. End of the Soviet Union was…complicated. But he was arrested, and we lost everything in one night. My mother…she did everything to keep us in favour, keep me in nice clothes and well fed. But it did nothing to stop people talking. All people did was talk about us.”

He stops, hands clenched tight around his mug. “I joined army at sixteen, but they had had an eye on me as soon as my father was arrested. Maybe even before. What better way to control politician than have his son in the army, under control of the state? What better way to control what might be- I believe the term you Americans use is _loose cannon_.”

He breathes in the smell of the caj mali, and thinks of sitting next to the Mediterranean, a world away from Moscow. “I was good at it. I was very good at it. And I think they realised that maybe that was going to backfire on them, the people who put my father away, who knew that I could have influence with my name, if I could get myself to high position on my merit. If I got myself to high enough position, then it wouldn’t matter if the name Kuryakin came with bad reputation, as long as it got me in the door.”

It had taken him a long time to work that one out as politicians watched his every footstep when he walked through the halls of the Kremlin. It hadn’t occurred to him until years after he first stepped inside that he realised they were scared of him. He puts his mug down on the coffee table. “Once I was eighteen, they approached me with an offer. Special forces. Chance to really serve my country, they said, chance to…make right my father’s wrongs, best place for someone with my skill.”

He huffs a tired laugh, one hand running over his face. “I could not say no, even if I had known what they were trying to do. I joined. I was special forces, I went where they told me to go, did what I was told to do. I followed every order given to me, right up until…until I left Moscow.”

That last bit isn’t quite true. There’s no mention of Oleg, how he turned up to base one evening, a man Illya barely remembered from occasional visits when he was a child. How he took Illya aside and offered him the chance to make a real difference, to really serve his country, everything they had told him when they had first asked him to join the special forces. It’s easy to see, now, how much of it was a lie. At the time, Illya knows he had barely hesitated before agreeing.

He can’t tell Napoleon that, can’t let the story get too close to the building across the road and everything he is doing there to try and make the world a little safer. Even telling him this is treading a fine line, not technically breaking the rules but not being careful either. But he’s tired of lying.

Across from him, Napoleon breathes out slowly. Illya can’t bring himself to look up at him.

“Peril,” Napoleon says, the word heavy on his tongue. “Believe that I say this with the utmost sincerity.” Illya hears him draw in another breath. “What the actual _fuck_?”

“I’m not lying,” Illya says, instinctively bristling.

“Oh no, I’m not doubting that,” Napoleon says quickly. He reaches out, one hand gently resting on Illya’s arm. “Peril. I believe you. It’s a pretty sad story for you to just randomly make up, and you’re not the type of person to do that. What I meant is that it is fucked up, what happened to you, and I’m sorry that it did.”

Illya looks up at that. “Why?”

“Peril,” Napoleon says firmly, punctuating it with a squeeze of his forearm. “Do I need to go get a post-it note with _I am your friend_ written on it and stick it on my forehead until you get the point? That sounds awful, and you are my _friend_ , so I feel bad for you.”

“I can’t tell you about any of it,” Illya says abruptly, because focusing too long on that makes his head hurt. “What…what I did when I was special forces. Don’t ask me.”

“Wasn’t intending to, Peril,” Napoleon says calmly. “If you want to talk, then I’m happy to listen, you know that. But I’m not about to start asking invasive questions about whatever it is that you got up to in Russia.” He sips at his tea. “Have you eaten?”

Illya blinks at the abrupt change in conversation. “…No?”

Napoleon nods, like somehow that decides everything. “I’ll make something. What are your thoughts on fresh pasta?”

“Good if executed properly, terrible if not,” Illya says automatically. “Why, are you going to attempt it?”

“Attempt it?” Napoleon echoes. He gets to his feet. “I am going to blow your socks off with this pasta. You’re going to have _dreams_ about this pasta tonight. You’ll be at my door begging for more tomorrow.”

“Keep dreaming, Cowboy,” Illya mutters over the rim of his mug, the tension slowly draining from him the longer that he sits there and Napoleon doesn’t judge him or throw him out of his shop.

Napoleon pulls his apron out from behind the counter, the one patterned with cactuses. Now Illya is looking closely, he can see tiny horses and riders jumping over them. “Watch me work, Peril,” he says with a grin. “This is going to be the best damn pasta you’ve ever had.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is absolutely a reason that Napoleon was able to hide any military tells from Illya (though he wasn't doing it consciously) and his past is going to become a problem eventually. This does all end happily, though, because I am incapable of writing it any differently. I'm currently working on the sequel and some of it is genuine fluff, I promise.
> 
> I love the idea that Illya was so good in the army that the politicians began to get worried he might make a name for himself and manage to come after them, so they put Oleg onto him to permanently destroy that risk by having him do all sorts of exposable and damaging things as an agent that would immediately destroy any political career. Obviously that's not quite what he told Napoleon, but what he says to Napoleon is all true. Also, Illya is slowly learning what it is to have a normal friendship, but he's not quite gotten how all of it works yet. The post-it notes does become a running gag because I could not resist.
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are much loved.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **PLEASE READ THESE CONTENT WARNINGS: this chapter contains detailed description of a character having a bad panic attack, which includes aggravating an existing injury as a form of self-harm. This behaviour is stopped pretty quickly by someone else and is not repeated, and I feel it is important to stress that the character is met with love and support. Please look after yourself, and absolutely feel free to skip the latter half of this chapter if you feel the need to (from the moment Illya comes back from Ukraine to the end of the chapter). I shall write in the end notes a summary of what happens.**
> 
> In case the bolded content warning above doesn't give it away, this is where the angst kicks in. I promise there will be a happy ending.

“Hi! Are you here for the meeting?”

An energetic young woman almost bounces up into his face. Illya steps back reflexively. “…No?”

Her brow creases in a frown. “I’m sorry, I assumed that if you were here then you were part of the meeting. You do know that this place is technically…closed?”

Illya stares at her. “…Yes,” he says slowly. “I know. Who are you? Is Napoleon here?”

There’s a muffled clatter from the kitchen, and a bitten off curse. “Excuse me,” Illya says, stepping around the woman. “Cowboy?”

“Here, have a flyer,” the woman says, pulling one out of a pocket and trying to thrust it into his hands. “You’re welcome to join us if you would like, we’re welcoming to everyone. My name’s Aubrey, I’m committee chair, you can ask me any questions you have-”

“Excuse me,” Illya says again, tucking his hands in his pockets and avoiding the flyer as she tries to hand it to him again. He ducks behind the counter and into the kitchen. “Cowboy? Why is random woman in your coffee shop trying to give me flyer?”

Napoleon looks up from where he’s restacking pans that must have just fallen over. “Aubrey? She’s just enthusiastic about finally having a nice place to have the meetings. She’ll calm down when she realises that you’re not here for the meetings and just to see little old me.” He grins at Illya over a slowly towering stack of pans. “I’ve let them have the place for free after I’m closed so they can have a safe space. Seeing as they’re mostly university students, they’ll hopefully pay me back by buying an ungodly amount of coffee.”

“What meetings?” Illya asks. He reaches out and steadies the stack of pans, nudging one near the base back into place.

“Oh, the LGBTQ group from…UCL, I think, though they extend across multiple universities a bit,” Napoleon replies. “It’s hard for some of them if they aren’t out to have meetings on campus, so when I met Aubrey in here and she asked me if I knew any spaces, I offered this place up for them.” He shrugs. “Doing my bit for my community, I suppose. My teenage years would have certainly been much nicer if I’d had a safe space like this to talk to other people like me.”

The pan slips from Illya’s hand and clatters across the table. He curses, trying to hide the way his heart has seemingly leapt into his throat at Napoleon’s words and is now clinging there fiercely. “Last one,” he says, handing the pan over to Napoleon.

When he looks up, Napoleon is studying him with a curious look. “You don’t mind the meetings, do you?”

The words carry a different weight, with the way Napoleon is looking at him. For a moment, the words are just on the tip of his tongue. But he can’t speak them. He doesn’t know how. He’s only said it once before, and that was with most of a bottle of vodka in him and Gaby’s big eyes making him believe that for once, he could trust someone with this.

“No, of course not,” he says instead. “How often are they meeting?”

“Once a week,” Napoleon says over his shoulder as he turns for something on the side. “Grab the chess set, we can play out there as long as you’re okay with me getting up every so often to make them drinks.”

Illya is halfway through setting up the chessboard when Napoleon comes out. In his hands are two plates, one of which he sets down in front of Illya. “Try it,” he says.

There’s a slice of pie on the plate, a golden brown lattice on top, fruit spilling out from underneath. Illya stabs a piece of the pie with a fork, catching the juices before they drip on the couch, and takes a bite.

“Oh my god.” Illya immediately grabs another bite. “This is _incredible_ , Cowboy. What is it?”

“Peach pie.” Napoleon takes a bite of his own, and a faint grimace crosses his face. “It’s not quite right.”

“What are you talking about?” Illya asks. “This is amazing.”

Napoleon takes another bite, chewing thoughtfully. “It’s not quite right. Too heavy on the cinnamon, I think. I don’t know. Maybe I’m missing another spice in the peach syrup.”

“Tastes fine to me,” Illya says around another mouthful of pie. “What recipe are you using?”

“Whatever I can remember,” Napoleon says, his voice suddenly quiet. “It was my mother’s favourite pie.”

Illya freezes, fork halfway to his mouth. Flashes of memory assault him; standing on a stool to reach the counter, his hands sticky with dough. The smell of roasting meats as his mother pulls something out of the oven, his father carving and piling his plate high with food. Trying to whisk cream on his own, the bowl too big for him to hold properly, his mother finding him in the kitchen trying to put together a cake for his father’s birthday and helping to rescue it.

There’s a low melancholy to Napoleon’s expression that Illya can’t help but recognise, not when his mother has been dead and buried in Moscow for the past four years. He doesn’t tell Napoleon that his mother would be proud of him, or that she’s watching over him. He has no idea whether the first would be true, and he is fairly certain that the second isn’t. “It’s good pie, Cowboy,” he says instead. “But yes, maybe too heavy on the cinnamon. Have you tried adding nutmeg to it? Maybe little bit of ginger?”

“Nutmeg, yes, but no to ginger,” Napoleon replies. “Hang on a second.” He disappears into the kitchen, and then reappears a few seconds later with a folder in his hand. “Recipes I’ve tried,” he explains as he flicks it open and jots something down on a fresh piece of paper.

Illya flips through a few of them, Napoleon’s handwriting covering the spare spaces of the paper around the recipes. “You’ve put lot of thought into this,” he says carefully.

Napoleon shrugs, gently tugging the papers out of Illya’s hands and neatly tidying them away in the folder again. “I’ve got to get it right. I just…it’s got to be right.”

Illya picks back up his plate of pie and stabs at the last piece left with his fork. “I don’t know, Cowboy, it tastes fine to me,” he says, finishing off the plate and wondering if it’s bad manners to scrape at the peach juices still left on the plate with his fork. “…Is there more?”

That manages to startle a laugh out of Napoleon’s lips. “God, food just disappears into you, doesn’t it? You’d eat me out of a business if I wasn’t careful. Yes, there’s more. Set up the chess board. I might as well just bring out the entire rest of the pie.”

“Please do,” Illya says promptly, just to see Napoleon laugh again, the way his head tips back for a moment and the fond smile that’s on his lips as he gets up.

His chest feels tight as he watches that smile. Even the knowledge that Gaby is going to be insufferable when she finds out about this isn’t enough to keep the answering smile from his face.

0-o-0-o-0

“Have a seat, Kuryakin. Tea?”

Illya drops into the seat across the desk from Waverly. “No, thank you.” It doesn’t really matter, because Waverly will make him a cup anyway and he will probably end up drinking it for something to do, but a part of him keeps refusing just to see whether one day Waverly will snap. It’s highly unlikely, but still.

“I just wanted a quick chat with you,” Waverly says as he sits down at his desk, putting down two cups of tea. “Touch in, as it were. I appreciate that Brussels was…difficult.”

Illya goes to shrug, and then hesitates. “It…it was not easy, Sir. But we got there in time for most of them.”

“Thanks to you and Teller, of course,” Waverly adds. “I hope that this relative downtime back in London has been helpful. I appreciate, of course, that missions running back-to-back is not necessarily beneficial for the health of my agents, but you and Teller are the most effective team I have, and sometimes, needs must.”

That sentence was so painfully British that Illya has a hard time understanding it for a few moments. “It is what we do,” he says awkwardly when Waverly offers nothing else. “We will keep going if it is needed of us.”

“Admirable spirit,” Waverly says with a tight smile. “But make sure to inform me if you or Teller believe that you need a break, a week’s downtime between missions, in the future. I would hate to run you into the ground without noticing.”

Illya shrugs. “You would notice, Sir. Even Oleg used to notice eventually.”

Waverly hums, turning his cup of tea around on his desk. “Kuryakin, I am sincere when I say that the bar Oleg set for your…care, as your employer, is incredibly low. I would be ashamed if I were to ever come close to it, and I would hope that you would warn me if I ever inadvertently approached it.” He takes a sip of his tea. “You have always been an incredibly…driven agent, Kuryakin. But I’m glad to say that recently, in the past few months, I have seen a noticeable improvement in your undercover work with Teller, as well as your handling of inter-agency diplomacy.” He shuffles a few pieces of paper on his desk. “I am aware that it is not your speciality, but Jürgen at Interpol was particularly complimentary about how you handled what was a tricky international situation between multiple parties in Kashmir. A significant improvement on-”

“Bull in a china shop was how Jürgen put it after the first time I worked with him,” Illya says wryly. “Though that was not all my fault.”

“Yes, I do remember how complicated that one was,” Waverly remarks. He clears his throat. “Anyway, Kuryakin. Your effectiveness as an agent has improved greatly over the years since you came here, even with all the unpleasantness that came with your transfer from Moscow, and these past few months have showed even further effort on your part to improve in your position as an agent of UNCLE. Keep doing what you’re doing, Kuryakin.”

“Sir,” Illya says, shifting in the chair slightly.

“On a similar note, have you heard anything from your contact recently?” Waverly asks, shuffling a few pieces of paper on his desk. “The one from Bolivia.”

Markos hasn’t contacted Illya since a few weeks after Bolivia, when he called at three in the morning and was on the phone for less than a minute before hanging up. Sitting up in bed, staring at the bright light of his phone, Illya had gotten the sense that somewhere back in Moscow, a noose is slowly tightening.

“No, Sir,” he just says. “I haven’t. But they will contact me, I cannot often contact them first without putting them in danger.”

Waverly hums, sipping at his tea. “They are in a precarious situation, from the little you have said. You should know, Kuryakin, that if you were to choose to confide in me the name of your contact, who they are and who they perhaps…work for, I would keep such information held very close to my chest. I have no desire to see them harmed for their association with you, nor you harmed because of it. And I may be able to help them, if they are willing.”

“Sir?”

Waverly looks at him over the rim of his mug. “Your situation is not unique, Kuryakin. I am willing to fight for people who can be an asset to this organisation, and to an extent, people who need extracting from an unfortunate situation they find themselves in. Of course, I must balance the needs of this organisation. But there are things I can do. If they are willing to meet me halfway.”

“I- I can ask,” Illya says. He tries to tamp down on the flicker of hope that is starting to stir in his lungs. It’s a useless thing. Markos knows that he only has to ask for Illya to do everything he can to help him, and Illya has known since the first months of joining UNCLE that he might be able to press Waverly to accept another Russian trying to escape the weight of what Moscow has done to them. But it’s never that easy. “It is…complicated.”

“Well, these things often are,” Waverly replies. “Let me know if I can be of assistance, if it comes to that. Now, back to business. How are your contacts in Ukraine?”

Illya stumbles trying to follow the sudden swing in conversation, and rights himself. “Stable enough. Moscow does not pass much information onto their counterparts in Ukraine concerning SVR affairs, so not many of them know of me beyond rumours that gets leaked from Kremlin, and they probably do not know my face. There are people out there I can still work with.”

“Not too close to Moscow?” Waverly asks.

Illya hesitates. “I cannot be certain, Sir,” he says eventually. He’d learnt very early on not to lie to Oleg, and the habit has carried over. “It has been- I am not up to date on the workings of the SVR. But if there is a job to do in Ukraine, then I can do it.”

“Capital.” Waverly hands over a file. “See what you think of this. Hopefully there won’t be too many feathers ruffled by the end of it.”

0-o-0-o-0

Ukraine is an unmitigated disaster.

His cover is blown just four days after getting there. They jump him as he’s walking down the street, civilians instantly scattering at the first sign of danger. He throws them off, but only just, and spends the next two days running for his life through the bombed-out ruins of Ukrainian towns that are now swarming with soldiers, chased by pro-Russian insurgents. The people chasing him know his name. One of them hisses it at him in fury, just as Illya guts him. He’s speaking Russian instead of Ukranian.

Illya freezes for a moment. It’s enough for another man to get a knife out. The knife cuts into his forearm as he blocks it, leaving a long slash dripping blood down his arm as he knees the man in the groin and then drives the blade of his hand into his windpipe. He leaves a trail of blood through the neighbourhood before he manages to hide in a half-destroyed outbuilding and wrap a hasty bandage around it.

Waverly eventually manages to extract him. Illya sleeps for the first time in three days on the plane back, but only for an hour before he wakes with a gasp, scrabbling for his gun. He can still hear the echo of a man choking on his blood from a gut wound, writhing on the ground. He can still hear the Moscow dialect.

Waverly is waiting on the tarmac. “I take it your contacts were not as you remembered,” he remarks as Illya steps off the plane. “I’ve sent another team of agents out there to continue the mission. Hopefully they will be able to salvage the mess there and reach an acceptable outcome.”

Each of his words hits Illya like a brick, piling up until he can feel them dragging at his heels. “I apologise, Sir,” he gets out. He straightens, holding his hands behind his back even as it sears the long cut down his forearm, bandaged by a medic on the plane. “I- I was unaware that my cover had been compromised until too late. It is inexcusable, such oversight, and I apologise.”

“None of that, now, Kuryakin,” Waverly says. “Have you been seen to by medics?”

“On the plane, Sir. I’m fine.”

Waverly looks him up and down. “It’s always difficult to tell that with you, Kuryakin.” He clears his throat. “In the car, then, and back to headquarters. We will debrief, and then I need you in the situation room, to help monitor and direct the situation in Ukraine. Despite this mess, you are well-versed in the issue.”

“I- yes, Sir,” Illya says. “I apologise again, Sir, for not being able to complete the mission. I- my cover, it should not have been so easily compromised, and-”

Waverly waves one hand. “We all have off days, Kuryakin. I’m glad to see you back in one piece.”

His words do little to quiet the shame and guilt crawling restlessly under his skin, making his fingers twitch against his leg. He breathes in and out and in again, unable to ignore the feeling of air filling his lungs. It doesn’t feel like enough.

He tramples that thought, ruthlessly pushing it into some corner and holding it down until it can’t get back up. His fingers twitch against his legs, trying to tap out a rhythm, and he balls his hands into his fists and breathes until it stops. London passes by them through the car window, another grey city that he barely sees.

Gaby is waiting for him when he gets out of the debrief with Waverly. “Are you okay?” she asks, grabbing his arm and practically towing him along towards the situation room. “What happened? How did your cover get blown?”

“I’m fine,” Illya says shortly. “And I don’t know. It shouldn’t have, they shouldn’t have known who I was.” He pauses. “One of them was Russian, but I didn’t know him. I didn’t recognise him. He should not have recognised me.”

He clenches his fists at his sides, hot shame welling up underneath his skin again. Gaby doesn’t seem to spot it, too busy dragging him into the room. “Come on, we can still salvage this. You’ve got some work to do.”

Waverly is in the room already, talking to a group of analysts as they cluster around a desk. Someone presses a file into his hands, and Illya pushes down the crawling heat beneath his skin, pressing it down until he can think. He has a job to do. He can’t let himself get distracted by something so stupid as the shame that still tries to choke him after all these years.

There’s an hour of what would be panic, if everyone was not so focused on their jobs, trying to pull together any scraps of information they had that would help them salvage the mission in Ukraine. Illya ignores the way his hands shake as he reads through reports, pores over satellite images, tries to explain to other agents the complicated politics of militias. There’s no indication how his cover was blown. No explanation for how the insurgents knew who he was after only three days in the country.

“We have audio on Allie. And visual.”

The noise in the room dims as a screen lights up on the wall, where a shaky video feed from a hidden pin camera on a jacket shows the clean white walls of a hospital. Illya concentrates, picking out the Ukrainian in the background. A nurse directs her to the room where one of the insurgents who had attacked Illya is now holed up with a knife wound in his gut.

Illya only half-pays attention to the screen as he studies the report in his hands, glancing up every so often to see another shaky view of white walls and doctors in white coats hurrying past. The Ukrainian just audible in the background of the feed is jarring, Illya’s ears automatically picking it out from the low hum of English around him in the room.

As such, it takes Illya a moment to hear the gasps that echo through the room.

He looks up just in time to see the video feed spin sickeningly from wall to ceiling to floor to wall again. The pin camera slams into the ground, the video feed shaking until it comes to rest staring down an empty corridor. A pair of polished black shoes slowly step into view.

“I thought you were warned. I should have known Kuryakin would ignore it.”

The floor disappears from underneath him.

His lungs seize in his chest. People are slowly turning to him, Gaby is already elbowing her way through towards him, but Illya can’t look away from the screen. He can’t do anything as a hand plucks the pin camera out from the jacket and pulls it up, a sickening blur eventually resolving into dark lapels of a dark wool coat, a neatly pressed tie held in place by a tie pin that Illya recognises immediately.

“Look what we have here.”

Oleg’s face appears, blown up to massive proportions on the screen. “Well, it seems that you can’t leave anything alone. I thought it would have warned you, Kuryakin, when I let a few of the people round here know just who you were, but apparently Waverly is too stubborn for that.”

Gaby has reached him. Her lips move, but Illya can’t hear her. He can’t hear anything in the room anymore. The air has been stolen from it, and there’s nothing but Oleg’s face, Oleg’s voice, the sneer on Oleg’s lips as he says _Kuryakin_ like he always has.

A hand closes on his elbow. Illya wrenches himself free, staggering back. He hits a desk, a stack of files knocked over and strewn across the floor. Oleg’s stare roots him in place. He can’t move. He can’t do anything but stare.

Gaby is suddenly in front of him, blocking his view, and Illya heaves a desperate breath. She’s talking, he can see her lips moving, but he can’t hear her. He can’t hear anything but Oleg’s voice.

He heaves another breath and the world blurs around him.

He can’t be here.

He can’t…he can’t _be here_.

There’s another hand at his elbow, but he blindly shakes it off as the door slams shut behind him. He can still hear Oleg.

He can still _hear_ him.

The people he stalks past are just blurs but he can still feel them staring, feel them whispering as he passes. It’s always whispers. Everywhere he walks, those whispers follow him, dig into his skin and burrow deep into his bones. Moscow still holds him in a grip tight enough to hurt, and the whispers have never stopped bleeding from the Kremlin walls. He’ll never escape Oleg. He’ll never get far enough that he can’t hear him.

He pushes open doors, grips at the rail as he hurries downstairs like there’s any way he can outrun this, outrun the crawling heat under his skin that’s slowly consuming him, taking him over until there’s nothing but an empty shell left wandering a city that isn’t his.

The warm air hits him and makes him stumble to a stop. He can smell coffee, and something baking.

“Peril?”

Illya starts. Napoleon is standing in front of him.

The café is empty around them, chairs stacked up on tables. There’s a brush in Napoleon’s hand. Illya watches as he slowly sets it to one side. “Illya?”

He reaches out for him, and Illya flinches. He can’t help it. He can barely hear Napoleon over the roaring in his ears.

“Illya,” Napoleon says, his voice gentling. He reaches out again, every movement slow. His lips move but Illya can’t make out what he’s saying. He watches as Napoleon’s hand slowly closes around his, drawing it forwards. “Let’s try this again,” he says, and suddenly the words make sense. “Illya, is everything okay?”

Illya stares down at Napoleon’s hand. At his own hand, limply sat in it. He distantly notices that he’s shaking.

He can still _hear_ him.

“What’s wrong, Illya? What can I do?”

The shaking is taking over his entire body. His mouth opens, but he can’t find the words, he can’t find anything to say, to begin to try and explain. “I- I don’t know,” he gets out. “I- I _can’t_.”

Something warm and wet hits the back of his hand. He looks down to see a drop slowly rolling off his hand, a trail drying and disappearing as it falls to the floor. His breath hitches. There’s something in his throat that makes it impossible to breathe. The roaring in his ears builds and grows and sends tremors wracking his body.

“Oh, Illya,” Napoleon says softly. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. Just come with me. Come on, just come sit down with me, Illya.”

There’s a hand at his back. Napoleon guides him forwards, past the counter and the kitchen, through another door as Illya stumbles. There’s a hand gently gripping his elbow and then something soft underneath him. Napoleon crouches in front of him, gently squeezing his arm. “Illya, I’ll be right back. I just need to lock the front door. I’ll be right back, I promise, okay?”

Illya feels himself nod. Napoleon gets up, takes one last look at him, and then hurries out of the door.

It’s quiet. Illya can feel every breath he takes, the shuddering gasps that leave his throat raw. His heartbeat roars in his ears.

It’s too quiet. Everything is spiralling out of control, Oleg’s voice echoing over and over again in his head until he’s gripping at the sides of his head, shaking fingers clutching at his hair and pulling at his scalp. There’s not enough air in the room. He can’t _breathe_. Everything is roaring around him and it’s too much, there’s too much.

His hands are shaking. He wants to rip things apart, shatter and break everything around him until he can just _breathe_. He wants to tear apart the room until all he can hear is static. His hands grab hold of the nearest thing but it’s wrong, it’s soft and smooth and nothing like the hard back of the chair in his office or the leather of his desk chair at home. He pauses, the second enough to fight for a desperate breath. He’s in Napoleon’s office, in the shop. He can smell the coffee.

Illya presses a hand to his mouth. There’s a keening sound, like a wounded animal, and he realises it’s escaping from between his own clenched teeth. He can’t stop, even when he presses his hand so hard against his mouth that it hurts.

His hands are shaking. He still wants to rip the room to pieces, but he can’t. This is Cowboy’s. He _can’t_.

The dig of his fingers into his cheek and the sharp sting of his nails jolts him, just for a moment. Before he thinks about it his sleeve is pushed back and the gauze ripped away, the sharp sting only lasting for a moment. It’s not enough. He presses down on the scabbed cut reaching up around his forearm, digging in with his thumb. His hand stills for a moment, the tremors easing.

There’s a low noise from the doorway. Illya looks up. Napoleon is standing there, hand outstretched towards him.

“Oh. Peril.”

Shame stabs through Illya. Bile rises in his throat, his stomach roiling as his skin is consumed by sickening heat. He twists away from Napoleon’s gaze, squeezing his eyes shut. He can’t breathe. His hand digs into his arm. He can’t breathe.

A hand closes on his, gently tugging at it. He bites his tongue as a whimper forces its way up his throat. He flinches away. He can’t breathe.

“It’s okay, Illya. It’s okay. But you need to let go. Can you let go of your arm for me?”

A hand slides under his, steadily pulling his fingers away. “You’re okay. This is going to pass, and I’m right here. You’re going to be okay.”

Illya shakes his head. He can’t stop shaking. He can taste blood in his mouth, and bile rises in his throat again.

“It’s okay. You’re going to be okay, Illya.” The voice is calm, steady. The sickness slowly recedes, leaving him gasping for breath. He can’t breathe. There isn’t enough air in the room.

“There is enough air, Illya. I promise you, there’s enough air. You’re taking in too much air, you’re hyperventilating. Just slow your breathing down, Illya. That’s all you have to do. Just slow down. Try and take a breath for me, Illya. Take a deep breath.”

Illya tries. He heaves a deep breath, and then another, and then the crawling under his skin breaks through and he’s gasping again. He reaches for his arm. A hand grabs his, pulling it away.

His entire body tenses. “It’s okay, Illya, it’s okay. I know you hurt right now, but that won’t help. Just hold onto my hands, Illya. Come here, just hold onto my hands.” Hands take his, gripping them tightly. “If you want to hurt yourself, squeeze my hands. Hold onto them as tight as you can, I don’t mind.”

There are hands gripping his. Illya grips back as he heaves a desperate breath. “There we go. There you go, Illya. Just breathe and hold onto me.”

Illya takes a breath. The roaring quietens slightly in his ears. He takes another breath and it hitches in his throat. The crawling under his skin rises and threatens to sweep him away, but then a thumb smooths over his wrist, the movement achingly gentle. Illya tightens his grip, squeezes the hands holding his with all his strength instead of reaching for his arm, and he tries to haul himself back over the precipice.

He opens his eyes to see Napoleon crouched in front of him. “Breathe in…two…three…four, and out…two…three…four,” he says, thumb smoothing back and forth over the inside of Illya’s wrist, again and again. He looks up to see Illya looking at him, and a small smile gently curls his lips. “Hey, Peril. Just keep holding onto me, okay? Hold on as tight as you want if you need to. You’re going to be okay. This will pass, and you’re going to be okay.”

Another breath, and it comes a little easier this time. “There you go, Peril,” Napoleon says softly. “There you go.”

The tremor running through his body slowly subsides, the crawling heat under his skin cooling and fading. Exhaustion takes its place. His eyes sting and then his cheeks are wet, tears dropping from his jaw to land on the back of his hands. He slowly tips forwards, his forehead coming to rest on Napoleon’s shoulder. Napoleon doesn’t let go of him.

Everything just…slips.

The first thing he hears is a low voice, a soft tune repeating. There’s a gentle pressure across his wrist, a pattern that he can’t follow. Everything is…quiet.

He shifts, and the voice pauses slightly before picking the tune right back up.

“ _I’m going to lay down my sword and shield, down by the riverside. Down by the riverside, down by the riverside.”_

_“I’m going to lay down my sword and shield, down by the riverside. Ain’t gonna study, study war no more.”_

Illya blinks, and the world begins to seep back slowly into place. The first thing he sees is Napoleon, crouched in front of him. His head is bowed, Illya staring down at the dark curls of his hair.

He must make some sort of sound, because Napoleon pauses, and then looks up. “Hey, Peril,” he says easily, like Illya has just walked into the shop to pick up a coffee. “Back with me?”

The words aren’t there to reply with. Illya’s gaze drops, and then falls on his arm, resting in his lap.

The gauze has been taped securely back to his arm. Running out of it are lines of ink, intricate swirls curling around his arm, reaching down towards his wrist where feather-light lines form tiny flowers and animals and what looks like a row of coffee beans. There’s a biro pen in Napoleon’s hand, the point still resting gently at the end of a line on the inside of his wrist.

Napoleon follows Illya’s gaze. “I hope it helped,” he just says. “It’ll wash off easily, don’t worry.”

Illya slowly turns his wrist over, dislodging the pen, tracing the lines as they continue, almost reaching up onto the back of his hand. It’s beautiful.

He tries to apologise, tries to thank him, but the words aren’t there. He tries to say anything. Nothing.

His breath hitches in his throat. Napoleon’s thumb presses firmly against the inside of his wrist. “No words? That’s okay, Peril. You can understand me, right?”

Illya nods. He can do that. Napoleon gently squeezes his hand. “Awesome. Now, I think that you should probably go home, and I think that you shouldn’t try to do that on your own right now. Gaby has been trying to get hold of me, but I haven’t answered her yet. Do you want me to get her for you?”

Illya is shaking his head before Napoleon even finishes. Everything has gone wrong, and Gaby must be swamped trying to cope without him there. But he can’t go back in that building. He doesn’t think he could even look at her right now without hearing Oleg’s voice.

“Okay, that’s fine,” Napoleon says, his voice steady and calm. “That’s completely fine. Peril, take a few deep breaths for me. Easy now. There you go.” His thumb strokes back and forth across the inside of Illya’s wrist. “Can I call her back, let her know what’s happened, that you’re with me and you’re okay? I’m sure she’s a little worried.” Illya nods, and Napoleon reaches for his phone.

Illya sits there, staring at the patterns curling up around his arm and wrist as Napoleon quietly talks to Gaby. The words slip past him. Before he knows it, there’s a gentle touch on his arm. Napoleon is crouched back in front of him.

“Hey, Peril,” he says softly. “Gaby says that she hopes you feel better soon, and that you should absolutely go home and leave her to rain down hell, whatever that means to you. I’m not really comfortable letting you go home on your own right now, so is it okay with you if I make sure you get home safe? Gaby let me know your address, and I have my car round the back, which will be much nicer than braving the Tube.” He gently squeezes Illya’s hand. “What do you think, Peril? Is that okay?”

Illya can’t find any energy to feel embarrassed, or try and tell Napoleon no. He doesn’t think he wants to. Napoleon is a warm and solid comfort, and he’s tired. He’s so tired.

He nods. In a few minutes Napoleon is leading him out the back, his bag over one shoulder as he locks the back door behind them. “Hop in, Peril,” he says, unlocking the unassuming black car just in front of them. “Still doing okay?”

Illya sinks back into the seat of the car. He nods slowly. He wants to hide further back in the seat, he wants to pull his knees up to his chest and shut his eyes, but he can’t. So he just sits there, staring at the lines of coffee beans across the inside of his wrist.

Napoleon hesitates as he gets in the car, sits there for a moment without turning the car on. “Let me know if you’re not,” he says, turning to Illya. “I’m totally not adverse to breaking traffic laws if you need me to pull over or turn around and go somewhere else. Okay?” He holds Illya’s gaze until he nods, and only then starts the car.

London is loud. Illya presses his forehead against the window and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to shut out the sirens and buses and obnoxious tourists crowding every pavement. The coffee shop was quiet. London is loud, too loud, pressing in on all directions until Illya can feel his hands shaking again. Something starts crawling under his skin, pushing at him relentlessly.

Napoleon starts humming a tune. It’s familiar. Illya latches onto it, trying to drown out London until they’re pulling up in the garage beneath his apartment block. Illya manages to find his keys in his pocket, and Napoleon easily takes them from him when his hands shake too much to get the key in the lock.

As soon as the door shuts behind him and he hears the alarm system kick in, exhaustion almost sends Illya staggering. He braces himself with one hand against the wall as he stumbles down the hallway. When he eventually manages to reach his bedroom and collapse down onto his bed, he looks up to see Napoleon crouched in front of him.

“Are there any medications you need to take before you go to sleep?” he asks. At Illya’s shake of his head, he just nods, and pulls a water bottle out of his bag. “Drink some of this, then, that’ll help before you go to sleep. Do you want me to stay?”

Illya can’t quite work out what he means by that. Napoleon frowns, reaching out and gently squeezing Illya’s hand. “Peril? I’m honestly not really comfortable leaving you alone right now, but I’d at least like to know if you want me to stay around.” He hesitates. “Do you want me to leave?”

Illya is shaking his head before he can think about it. He grasps hold of Napoleon’s hand. “Fair enough, Peril,” Napoleon says, his voice achingly soft. “I’ll stay, then. Come on, you should get some sleep. I’ll be here.”

Illya’s eyes slip shut almost as soon as the duvet covers him and his head hits the pillow. There’s the shift of a weight next to him, and then a warm hand loosely holding onto his. A low voice starts to sing.

“ _I’m gonna lay down my heavy load, down by the riverside. Down by the riverside, down by the riverside._

_I’m gonna lay down my heavy load, down by the riverside._

_Ain’t gonna study, study war no more.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary of latter half: Illya's cover is blown in Ukraine and Waverly extracts him back to London. Illya is pulled into the situation room to monitor what's going on in Ukraine, where an agent's hidden camera feed from Ukraine is being projected up onto a wall. The agent is knocked out and Oleg appears on the screen, having found the camera. At seeing/hearing Oleg again, Illya leaves and runs out to Napoleon's shop. Napoleon helps Illya through a bad panic attack, including drawing on Illya's arm around an injury he picked up in Ukraine to distract Illya from the urge to press on the injury as a form of self-harm. Illya is non-verbal once he comes out of the panic attack, but Napoleon is supportive, taking him home and staying with him as he falls asleep. It is implied that Napoleon is going to stay with him for the night.
> 
> I don't think this technically counts as a cliffhanger? I do promise that this is further continued next chapter, and the situation only improves. This isn't the end of the angst, of course, but it is mostly the end of this particular brand of angst.
> 
> There was a very small part of me who wanted Illya to get a tattoo of the coffee beans around his wrist after writing this scene, but I decided against it. So far. The song that Napoleon sings is 'Down By the Riverside', an old American spiritual song. This version [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ih3kVkk5_Q) is performed by the singer Louis Armstrong.
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are much, much loved, even if you just want to yell at me for daring to do this. See you all soon.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have known that everyone would love the angst last chapter, it's typical of this fandom. There are no more panic attacks, but there is definitely more angst coming. A couple of you have begun to guess about what might trigger it.
> 
> I'm currently working on the final few scenes in the sequel to this, so I might speed up the rate I'm publishing chapters because I have a lot left to get through! I have some other things I'm working on as well (one of which might be a new fandom because I watched The Old Guard yesterday and spent all of today planning fic ideas) so I'm going to be around for a while!

It takes him a long time to wake up. For a long few seconds he just lies there, eyes slowly blinking open, nearly swallowed by his duvet. He sits up, wondering why his head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton, and then he looks down to see lines of biro curling all around his arm.

Memories of yesterday hit him, a sledgehammer blow to his chest that takes a good few moments to breathe through. But it passes, and he can breathe normally again. He fumbles through the draw in his bedside table for the anxiety pills that the UNCLE therapist gave him, and lets one dissolve on his tongue. The panic of yesterday slowly quiets and settles.

Illya pulls an old jumper on and cautiously opens his bedroom door. “Cowboy?”

He thinks he remembers Napoleon still being here when he fell asleep, sitting on the other side of the bed, but he’s not sure. Everything after hearing Oleg’s voice and seeing him on the screen is a bit of a haze, but he remembers Napoleon there, remembers a low voice singing something he didn’t recognise.

He walks out into his small living room to see a human-shaped lump tangled up in the spare blankets on the sofa. Napoleon murmurs something, rolling over slightly and pulling the blankets closer around his shoulders. Illya watches as he presses his face closer into the sofa cushions, traces the way his hair is falling out of place of his usual style and beginning to curl across his forehead.

He stumbles back when he realises he’s been staring at Napoleon for way too long, one foot catching the edge of the skirting board. Napoleon startles awake, sitting up abruptly. “Oh. Right. That happened.” He rubs at his face, stifling a yawn, and then turns to see Illya. “Morning, Peril. How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Illya mutters. “I…I’m sorry, Cowboy.”

Napoleon rubs at his eyes. “Nope, no, not doing that.” He twists on the sofa, facing Illya fully. “I’m not going to judge you for yesterday, for having a panic attack. I’ve been there. I know how fucking awful they are. So no, no apologies necessary.”

Illya stares for a long moment as the words catch up to him. “I- thank you, then. For helping. And for…staying.”

Napoleon stretches, and Illya’s eyes are instantly drawn to that little line of skin where his shirt rides up. “Not a problem, Peril,” he says easily, like it really wasn’t a problem, like Illya probably didn’t scare the life out of him yesterday. “Please tell me you have coffee here, though. Your sofa is not the most comfortable thing to sleep on.”

“Take anything you want from kitchen, I’m going to have shower,” Illya says, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his jumper. The kitchen should be stocked, thanks to Waverly’s team who restock agent’s flats as soon as they get words they’re coming back from a mission. If not, Illya knows that there would be nothing but off milk and maybe some slightly sprouted potatoes in his fridge. “There should be coffee somewhere.”

The shower, hot enough to almost be scalding, and a change of clothes makes him feel more human. He emerges from his room to the smell of frying and finds Napoleon whistling to himself in the kitchen, spatula in one hand as he gently shakes a frying pan. “Coffee is brewing on the side. I’m making bacon. Is there bread? A baguette would be best, but I won’t be a food snob about it if you only have cheap white bread.”

It’s a good question. Illya guesses at cupboards and finds a farmhouse loaf, slicing off pieces and buttering them as Napoleon tips the bacon out onto a plate. “Bacon sarnies. Best thing for the day after a hangover. Or a panic attack, for that matter. Where are your mugs?”

“Does this mean I can have black coffee and not whatever you insist on making me?” Illya asks as he pulls out two mugs and hands them over. “Or are you going to insist on making me overpriced coffee in my own kitchen?”

“You’re feeling better,” Napoleon remarks as he hands Illya a plate and they sit at the small kitchen table. Illya traces the gouge mark in one side, from where he fell asleep after a mission and Gaby made the mistake of shaking him awake. “If you’re lambasting me about my coffee again.”

Illya shrugs. “Anxiety medications,” he says before he really thinks about it.

Napoleon hums. He looks down at his plate for a long moment. “I don’t want to pry about what triggered a panic attack for you yesterday, Peril, but I do want to ask you something. If you don’t want to say anything else about it then I’ll drop it, and not say anything else today, but I do want to ask you something first.” He picks at a piece of bacon. “Are you getting help? Talking to someone? Not going to lie, Peril, you scared me a little yesterday. I’m glad you came to me, and I’m really glad that I was able to help, but I don’t want you to be shouldering this on your own. That’s shitty, and you don’t deserve that.”

Illya briefly wonders when this became his life. “I- yes,” he says eventually. “We have…therapists, at work. When I came over from Moscow, my boss made me go to them.” He huffs a brief laugh, running his thumb around the rim of the med bottle in his pocket as he stares down at the table. “They did not…encourage that, in Moscow. It took me long time to get used to it. But…it helps, so I keep going when I can.”

“Yes, I can’t imagine that the Russian special forces put much stock in mental health,” Napoleon says around a mouthful of bacon. “Also, you haven’t touched your coffee yet. I’m starting to think that you secretly like my coffees more and that this whole _black coffee_ thing is just a front.”

Illya scoffs. “Keep dreaming, Cowboy.” He reaches for his mug, and the face of his father’s watch catches his eye. “It is nine already? You should be at work. _I_ should be at work.”

Napoleon shrugs. “I’m closed for the day. And if Gaby hasn’t texted you to tell you to stay home today or something similar, then I promise I will only ever make you black coffee ever again.” He nods at Illya’s plate. “Eat your sarnie before it gets cold.”

Napoleon shows no sign of leaving when they finish eating, stealing a quick shower and grabbing a change of clothes out of his bag. “One day, some irate customer is going to throw coffee in my face, and I’d rather have something to change into.”

“It would hurt your soul to wear something stained with coffee, Cowboy,” Illya agrees as he finishes washing up and stacking the plates.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Illya gives Napoleon a look over his shoulder. “You care very much about how you look, Cowboy. I have seen you preen in back of cake pans in kitchen and restyle your hair. You think I haven’t noticed? Also, you wear clothes you should not wear for working around coffee all day. Far too expensive, even if your taste is not the best. And you don’t match hipster _aesthetic_ that most of your customers have. Not modern enough.”

“Excuse you,” Napoleon says, though his voice is mild. “Firstly, I have excellent taste in clothes, you just don’t have good enough taste to appreciate it. You wear the same turtlenecks every single day, you don’t have any room to judge me. Secondly, I do not _preen_. I just…make sure I look presentable.”

Illya scoffs. “If that is what you want to call it. You are like…what is it called, those birds? They sound weird, they have the big…tail things.” He fans out his hands. “They have tails like that, they screech at you when you get too close. Stupid animals.”

“Peacocks?” Napoleon asks. “They’re not stupid, they’re pretty. I’ll take it as a compliment.”

“They are idiots,” Illya says flatly. He had to break into a compound once that had them strutting around the grounds like they owned the place, and it was a hundred times harder avoiding them than avoiding the usual guards and dogs. “And loud. And the males are dumb. So they are just like you, Cowboy.”

More memories are slowly coming back of last night as he stands at the sink and washes up, Napoleon perched on the counter only a few feet away.

Napoleon’s firm grip on his hand as London batters against the car windows. A low voice softly singing as a pen traces lines across the skin on the inside of his wrist. The smell of roasted coffee and baking wrapping around him as he staggers through the door and Napoleon reaching out for him, hands outstretched.

That moment clarifies in his head. He frowns. “Cowboy.”

“’Sup,” Napoleon says, not looking up as he scrolls through something on his phone.

“Since when did you know how to speak Russian?”

Napoleon pauses. His lips twist in a slow grimace. “You remember that? Since I spent some time in St. Petersburg about four years back. I’m not very good, and my accent is terrible, but you didn’t seem to really be registering English, so I gave it a shot.” He looks up at Illya. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to…to _lie_ , or anything. If it would have ever come up, I would have said something. I just…it never came up.”

Illya shakes his head. “I know you would not lie to me about anything important. I trust you. When it doesn’t come to coffee.”

Napoleon is silent for a long moment, enough for Illya to look up from the washing up. “Cowboy?”

Napoleon starts, feet hitting the cupboard doors beneath him. “Sorry. Yeah.” He shakes himself, and then there’s a smile back on his face. “I still probably should have mentioned at some point that I can speak your native language.”

Illya huffs a short laugh as he finishes putting away the last cooking equipment. Napoleon must be tired after yesterday. “It is probably for the best. If you had talked in an _American_ accent, in Russian, when we first met, I could not have been held responsible for my actions.”

Napoleon laughs. He’s perched on Illya’s counter, the light from the window catching his hair just right for a moment as it curls softly across his forehead, the line of his neck as he tips his head back to laugh, and Illya, for a moment, is struck speechless.

“So,” Napoleon says, swinging his legs idly against the counter. “I don’t normally have days off at the moment, what with running a business and everything. There’s a new exhibition on at the V&A about Dior that has excellent reviews. Care to join me?”

“I have never actually been to V&A,” Illya says, leaning back against his kitchen table. He hasn’t been to most of the typical tourist things in London, despite having lived here for three years. He just has never seemed to find the time or the effort. “But it will be fun to watch you get things wrong about Dior.”

“I know more about fashion than you do and you know it,” Napoleon retorts, a broad grin on his lips. “But you’ve never been to the V&A, even after three years here?”

“Never had time,” Illya replies. It’s somewhat true. Most of his days off between missions are spent sleeping, out training in the park or in the office anyway, catching up on paperwork. And every time he’s thought about going to any museums or galleries or anything in London like that, he’s never quite managed to actually go. “Here, or in Moscow. What is point of wandering around art galleries if you know nothing about art there? Then you are just staring at paint.”

“Well, good thing you’ve got me now,” Napoleon says with a grin. “Grab a coat. If we go now, we can fit in an art gallery after lunch as well.”

They’re wandering down through Kensington, dodging the inevitable tourists, when Napoleon turns to him. “When’s your birthday?”

Illya nearly trips on the pavement. “What?”

“Your birthday, Peril. It’s not a difficult question.”

“It was a few months ago.” He had been wrapping up a mission with Gaby in Rio at the time, and his birthday present had been a makeshift explosive device that he’d used as soon as Gaby had frantically thrown it at him to block the drug cartels from following them. “I’ve never bothered much with it.” At Napoleon’s look, he smiles wryly. “Before my father, it was still the Soviet Union and extravagant gifts were frowned upon. After, it was waste of money that we didn’t have. And once I was in the army I tended to forget.”

Napoleon frowns for a second. “Well, completely unrelated second question, then. What was your favourite thing to do in Moscow if you had a free day or evening?”

Illya eyes him as they walk down towards the V&A entrance. Napoleon looks completely innocent, but Illya’s gut instincts are telling him otherwise. “Why does it matter?”

“No reason, Peril,” Napoleon says. “No reason at all.”

They head inside, the hallway stretching out in front of them, footsteps ringing on marble floors that gleam in the morning light streaming from the great domed glass ceiling above them. Napoleon’s face immediately lights up and he all but drags Illya across the hall. “Isn’t this beautiful?” he says as he stops in front of a marble statue stretching up above their heads, a man with a blade raised high, frozen in the moment of bringing it down upon another man at his feet. “The technical skill required to make this is just… _incredible_ , even today.”

Illya realises, as he follows Napoleon from room to room and just listens to his rambles about art, that he hasn’t thought much about yesterday. He hasn’t been overanalysing every single moment that he can remember, castigating himself for losing control at just the sight of Oleg. Those thoughts were cut short the moment he came out of his room to find Napoleon asleep on his sofa, and they haven’t had the chance to surface.

There’s an easy contentment sitting under his skin, and he can’t quite bring himself to find a problem with it. “Ballet,” he says abruptly as they’re looking at an early Dior dress.

“Beg your pardon?” Napoleon asks, not looking away from studying the detailing of the embroidery.

“I used to dance ballet, when I was young. Before…well, everything. We used to go to Bolshoi often,” Illya says. He sees Napoleon straighten and turn towards him out of the corner of his eye, but stares straight ahead at a display across the room. “My parents and I. My mother took me once a year, after my father. That was my favourite thing to do in Moscow.”

“Interesting,” Napoleon murmurs. “Very interesting.”

He appears immune to any of Illya’s more subtle interrogation methods, because Illya can’t get him to say a word more about it for the rest of the day. They walk the rest of the museum until Illya gets hungry enough to drag Napoleon to a small hole-in-the-wall Korean place that he found wandering the streets late one night, and then Napoleon drags him to the Tate Modern when he finds out that Illya has never been there either. Illya doesn’t question it once.

All in all, it’s probably one of the best days off he’s had for a long time.

0-o-0-o-0

He stops ignoring her when the occasional buzz of a text message turns into long, continuous buzzing in his back pocket. Gaby’s name flashes up on the screen. “Are you going to stop ignoring her?” Napoleon asks as they wander through a street market.

“Stop looking over my shoulder, Cowboy,” Illya snaps, but there’s no heat in his voice. He lets the call ring out and puts his phone back in his pocket. “If I answer, I have to talk to her.”

“Yes, that’s generally how these things go,” Napoleon says. He nudges Illya. “You don’t _have_ to talk to her, Peril, but she is your friend and she cares about you. I’m sure she wants to make sure you’re okay.”

“I haven’t actually been ignoring her,” Illya mutters. He answered her text this morning, asking if he was doing okay and letting him know that there was no way he should be in work today, and let her know that he was going to be out most of the day with Napoleon when they left his apartment. But he knows Gaby. He knows her better than almost anyone in the world. And he knows that, after an episode or panic attack or moment when he pushes her away, she lasts for at most a day before calling him again and again until he picks up.

Sometimes he thinks it’s just a long desensitisation process that she’s trying to pull off. If it is, it’s working. He picks up only the third time she calls.

“Yes, chop shop girl, I’m still fine,” he says. Gaby huffs a laugh over the line.

“Well, you were quick to pick up this time. I’m finishing up at work soon, and I thought I should check in.”

“I don’t need babysitting,” Illya snaps down the phone. “I’m fine, Gaby.”

“You weren’t yesterday, and that’s okay,” Gaby says firmly. “I’m sorry that you had an episode yesterday, and I’m glad that you’re feeling better now, and that’s it. Can I come over later? I should fill you in on what’s been going on in the office. Dinner. I’ll come over to your flat, I can be there in an hour, tops.”

“Dinner?” Illya glances over at Napoleon. “Cowboy, what time is it?”

“Gone six,” Napoleon answers. “Tell Gaby I say hi.”

“Cowboy says hi,” Illya says into the phone automatically. “I…yes. Dinner is fine.” On an impulse, he turns to Napoleon. “Do you have to go back to shop now? Or...do you want dinner?”

They end up back at Illya’s flat, Illya scrolling through local takeaways on his phone. “Put that away, I’ll cook something,” Napoleon says over his shoulder. “Anything Gaby doesn’t eat?”

“Shellfish, and she doesn’t say so but she does not like spicy food,” Illya says automatically. He pauses, turning around in his chair. “You do not have to cook, Cowboy.”

“Maybe not, but I like cooking, and you put away food so quickly that we would have to buy out the takeaway itself before you’re full,” Napoleon says with a smirk. “Can I rummage in your fridge and cupboards? I’ll see what I can pull together.”

“I- yes, but you don’t have to cook,” Illya says again. “You don’t have to- you don’t have to do _any_ of this.”

“Do you think that anyone, ever, has made me do something I don’t want to do?” Napoleon asks, already reaching for the fridge handle. “Case in point, Peril, I want to be here. I like you, and even ignoring everything that happened yesterday, I would have wanted to spend time with you anyway. I was going to text you on my next day off, seeing as we only ever see each other in my shop. I would have dragged you along to the Dior exhibition anyway in a few days.”

Illya stares at him, and a grin curls Napoleon’s lips. “Do I need to get out the post-it notes?”

“No, Cowboy,” Illya says eventually. “I…thank you.”

“Any time, Peril,” Napoleon says easily. Like it really is just that easy.

There’s a knock at the door just as Napoleon is pulling a pan of cornbread out of the oven and finishing off the stew on the stove, and Illya is trying to argue that just guessing the south of the US is a valid guess for where Napoleon grew up and should count as correct. Gaby pulls Illya into a hug almost as soon as he has the door open. “Hello, darling. Something smells delicious.”

“Cowboy insisted on cooking,” Illya says. “Hungry?”

Gaby purses her lips. “Let’s talk, first. Come on.” She sticks her head into the kitchen as she tugs Illya along. “Hi, Solo. I just have to borrow Illya for a few minutes to talk about work things. That smells like feet.”

“Nice to see you too, Gaby, and I heard you tell Illya it smelled delicious when you came in,” Napoleon says over his shoulder with a smirk. “Shout if you need rescuing, Peril.”

“Waverly is ready to raise hell,” Gaby says as soon as she shuts Illya’s bedroom door behind them. “He’s furious. Absolutely furious. Allie is fine, Oleg knew better than to actually do anything to her, but he’s completely overstepping every sort of mark by interfering with our work in Ukraine just because he’s still upset over losing you. It’s fucking ridiculous, and Waverly won’t stand for it. He’s waiting on you to give him the okay, he doesn’t want to do ahead without at least knowing you’re happy with this, but he’s ready to absolutely raise hell.”

Illya stuffs his hands in his pockets. “I will talk to him tomorrow.”

“Illya,” Gaby says sternly. “You can’t just avoid this. I can’t imagine how awful it was suddenly seeing him again, and knowing that he’d put you in danger in Ukraine, but this needs dealing with. _He_ needs dealing with.”

Illya can feel his hands starting to tremble. He fumbles for the med bottle in his pocket, letting one dissolve on his tongue and avoiding looking at Gaby. “I have had good day, Gaby. Considering what happened yesterday, I have had better day than I thought I could have. I know something needs to be done, I know Waverly will want to sit me down and talk for hours tomorrow, but it can happen tomorrow. Can we just have dinner?”

“Aren’t you at all pissed off?” Gaby asks. “Oleg just jeopardised your mission and your life for petty vengeance just because you don’t belong to him anymore. Aren’t you angry with him?”

“Angry?” Illya’s hands clench into fists at his sides. “I am _furious_. I am so angry with him, Gaby, for _so_ many things. For sending me out to kill for him, for keeping Markos chained to him, for…for everything he did that meant it took _years_ for me to realise how wrong it was. I am furious with him.” He heaves a breath, forcing the anger back down his throat. “But if I think about it too long, then I start wanting to break things again, and the therapist at UNCLE tells me that is not good reaction. So I do not think about it. I let Cowboy distract me all day, and try to enjoy it as best I can. Because if I don’t? If I let myself get lost in it? Then Oleg wins. And I _cannot_ let that happen.”

Gaby’s expression softens. “Okay, darling, okay. Will you at least let Waverly raise hell on your behalf? It’s hard to tell with him, but I think he’s almost desperate to lay into Moscow now that he has a proper excuse to do so.”

“I’ll even let you help,” Illya says, just to see Gaby’s fierce grin. He lets her pull him into a quick hug. “You can give him hell, chop shop girl.”

Gaby laughs. “Oh, he won’t have any idea what will hit him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware that in real life, people may not necessarily recover so quickly or easily from a severe panic attack, but I wanted to be kind to Illya (and also at this point in writing I realised I was at 30k and still had So Much More Plot left to write, so I curtailed the angst to one section instead of letting it seep out across 10k). The in-universe explanation for this is that Illya was trying very hard to have a normal day and let Napoleon take him out and distract him, and is very aware that he's allowing Napoleon to distract him, because otherwise Moscow wins, but I mostly wanted to be a bit kind to Illya.
> 
> Also, this line that Illya says? 'I know you would not lie to me about anything important. I trust you.' This is absolutely foreshadowing and is absolutely going to cause a hell of a lot of angst later on. Consider yourselves warned.
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are much, much loved.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was out competing for the first time since last October on the weekend with my horse, as the lockdown has lifted enough for eventing to resume, and managed to survive (I was fairly worried about being thrown off due to my horse being overcome with sheer excitement at finally being out having a party) only to bruise two knuckles on a punching bag in the gym today, so well done me I guess.
> 
> Anyway, because time is a social construct and I cannot remember a proper posting schedule anymore, have another chapter. A few people have been guessing at Napoleon's backstory in the comments and precisely how it's going to fuck everything up, but nobody is quite there yet.

Things change, after that. Illya still finds himself running around the world with Gaby, trying to stop the next maniac from trying to blow a portion of it up, but in London he finds himself outside the coffee shop with Napoleon more and more. Napoleon insists on taking him to what he considers the really important galleries and museums in London, and in return Illya takes him to the jazz cafes he’s found wandering the city in the evenings when jetlag and his own mind won’t let him sleep. It’s sporadic, between when Napoleon can shut the shop for a day off and when Illya isn’t halfway across the world, but it’s something.

“Here,” Napoleon says one evening, appearing from the back with a glass and plate. “I’m not giving in until I find a sweet iced tea that you like.”

“I suppose I don’t get pie version number fifteen if I don’t like this one,” Illya says wryly, but he takes the glass anyway. “You are going to have to give in eventually.”

“No, I’ll just withhold brownies until you cave,” Napoleon replies with a grin. “And don’t give me grief about how iced tea isn’t necessary. It’s almost June, and already it’s hot enough that most people are asking for iced coffees and teas.” He waves the pie in front of Illya’s face. “Want it?”

“Give me the pie, Cowboy. Crust looks better this time.”

Napoleon hums, sitting on the edge of the coffee table. “I used an egg yolk wash instead of a whole egg. I think it helped it brown up a little more. Try the tea first.”

Illya rolls his eyes, but dutifully takes a sip of the tea. He manages not to make a face, but Napoleon must see it anyway. “You’re utterly impossible,” he says, taking the glass back and taking a sip. “It’s fine! It’s good, even. Everything I make here is good.”

“You’re American, and therefore have no ability to judge taste,” Illya says back automatically. “Now give me pie. Also, Alabama. Because of sweet iced tea, and those songs you sing to yourself when you think nobody is listening. I looked them up. They’re old southern working songs.”

Napoleon hums. “Good guess, but no. Right region, wrong state.” He sips at his iced tea. “You know, paying customers would buy this. I could even make it overpriced and they would still buy it. If you can restrain your little socialist heart long enough for me to write it on the menu before you tackle me to the ground for capitalist crimes.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Illya says around a mouthful of peach pie. “I wouldn’t tackle you. I would use nerve block to make your arm dead and then you couldn’t make any of your overpriced coffee. Better long-term strategy than just tackling you.”

“Nerve blocks aren’t a real thing,” Napoleon says. He eyes Illya warily. “Aren’t they?”

Illya just keeps eating his pie. “Course not, Cowboy.”

The door opens, the bell ringing out above it. Napoleon turns to look over his shoulder. “Oh, hey Aubrey,” he says. “Want a hand?”

Illya looks up from his plate to see Aubrey dump a mountain of colourful cloth onto a chair. “I’m running super late, can you put these up if you have time?” she asks, pushing her hair out of her face. “I brought pins and blu-tack and everything.”

“Sure,” Napoleon says easily, draining his glass. “Come give me a hand, Peril. If you help, I won’t have to stand on any chairs.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Illya asks, but he sets his plate down, waves awkwardly to Aubrey as she waves at him, and follows Napoleon towards the window.

“You’re freakishly tall, Peril,” Napoleon says, gathering up what appear to be a large bundle of banners. He untangles some of them, and then thrusts one into Illya’s hands. “Here, hold this up to the top whilst I pin it in place.”

Illya stares down at the cloth in his hands. Bright stripes of block colours spill across his hands.

“Illya?”

Illya starts. He lets the pride flag hang loose in his hands. “Sorry. Yes. Where do you want it?”

Napoleon hesitates, pins held loosely in one hand. “You okay?”

“I’m fine?” Illya says. “Where do you want this?”

Napoleon pauses. He opens his mouth, and then shakes his head. “Hold it up here. I’m going to try and drape it so it’s not blocking out all the light, but people can still see it from outside. There are smaller flags to put around the rest of the window as well.”

Napoleon spends ten minutes directing him, and Illya’s arms are aching from holding the flag up and shifting it slightly, over and over, until Napoleon is satisfied with the placement. “Done,” Napoleon says eventually, standing back and looking at it, head tilted to one side. “Actually, just tug that left corner of it, Peril, just a little bit. The draping isn’t quite symmetrical-”

“No, it is good enough,” Illya says firmly. “If you want to fix it more, do it yourself.”

“It’s not quite symmetrical, though,” Napoleon says, his voice almost whining.

“It is _fine_ ,” Illya insists. “Don’t we have to put up all the others?”

They’re halfway through the bundle of flags that is now spilling out across the chair and floor, each one twisting just a little deeper into that tight knot within his chest, when Illya pauses. If he doesn’t say anything now, he knows he will regret it. “If this was Moscow, we would be arrested for this.”

The pins slip from Napoleon’s hand, clattering on the floor. “I’m sorry, what?”

Illya doesn’t look away from where he’s adjusting the flag in his hands. “Flying pride flags is illegal in Moscow. We could be arrested for this. Or fined, at least.”

“Jesus, Peril,” Napoleon mutters. “No, not at you, don’t make that face. I just- that sucks. That really sucks.”

Illya nods. He picks up another part of the flag, watching the rainbow spill through his fingers. “It was not easy, when I was younger,” he says distantly, the words slowly spilling over his lips. “To try and work out who I was, with all that around me.”

“No, I know,” Napoleon says softly. “That’s really hard. I don’t imagine it was as widespread as it must be in Russia, but it was pretty homophobic round where I grew up. People flew more Confederate flags than pride ones.” He pauses. Illya can see him shift out of the corner of his eye. “Peril?”

The colours are so bright in his hands. “Took me a long time to work out what this meant,” he said carefully, turning the flag over in his hands. He huffs a brief laugh. “Took me even longer to work out it was not wrong. And even now, I see- this, I see a rainbow flag, and my instinct is to pull it down. To hide it, before it is spotted, and someone gets hurt because of it.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Napoleon says carefully. “Peril, you- we don’t have to-”

Illya holds up one hand. “No. If I don’t say it now, Cowboy, I don’t know if I ever will.”

He forces himself to look at Napoleon, leaning against a nearby table. The pride flag hangs from his hand. The words stick in his throat, but Napoleon doesn’t say anything. He just waits, leaning against the table with that rainbow flag right behind his head.

“I’m gay,” he gets out. “So…yeah.”

There’s a slow smile that spreads across Napoleon’s face. “Thanks for telling me, Peril,” he says. He tilts his head. “You look like you could need a hug. Or do I need to get the post-it notes out again?”

Illya huffs a laugh, one that’s shaky in his throat. “You never got them out the first time,” he says, but he starts forwards, and then Napoleon is stepping forwards and drawing him into a hug.

He can smell Napoleon’s aftershave, just below the faint smell of roasted coffee. “Thank you, Cowboy,” he mutters into his shoulder.

“You can repay me by helping me with the rest of these flags,” Napoleon says, pulling back with a smile. He grips Illya’s arm. “You good?”

“I’m good, Cowboy.” Illya wipes at his eyes, breathing in slowly and then out again as the world settles around him a little more. “Let’s get the rest of these flags up.”

Eventually there’s just one more banner left, a long string of small flags, all different colours and patterns. Illya runs them through his hands. “There is so many of them. They are all for different…sexualities?”

“Identities,” a voice says. Illya glances up to see Aubrey nearby, folder in her hands. “We call them identities, as they include gender identities as well as sexual orientations. And yeah, there’s more than just being gay. Have you never seen any of these flags before?”

“I’m from Moscow,” Illya says flatly. “Where it is illegal to hang pride flags. So no. I have not.”

Aubrey’s face softens. “Oh. Sorry.”

“We’re not born with a knowledge of this, remember,” Napoleon says gently to her. “We have to pick it up as we go along. Here, Peril, I know what most of these mean, if you want to know.” At Illya’s nod, he starts to pin the flags up along the edge of the counter. “One crash course in pride flags coming right up. The only important thing you really need to know is that this one,” and he points to a pink, yellow and blue striped flag, “is absolutely the most important, because that’s me. Pansexual. No distinction between attraction to different genders. Obviously, the best.”

Illya snorts. “You keep telling yourself that, Cowboy.”

“Oh, I will.” Napoleon grins at him. He’s still wearing his stupid apron with tiny cowboys jumping cactuses across his chest. His shirt is rumpled after the long day, a stain of coffee across one cuff that he hasn’t noticed yet, and that Illya knows will annoy him endlessly as soon as he spots it. His hair is falling out of the usual pomade to begin to curl. Napoleon pushes it back with one hand only for the curls to fall forwards again, dark hair spilling across his forehead.

Illya wants to reach out and push it back out of his face. He wants to run his fingers through it, trail them along the line of his jaw. He wants to hear his laugh again, like the one falling so easily from his lips right now.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

He’s beautiful.

Illya can’t stop looking. He breathes out slowly, drinking in the sight of him as he just sits there and unfolds another flag, and resists the urge to swear viciously in his mother tongue.

Gaby is going to have an absolute field day when she finds out about this.

0-o-0-o-0

Gaby notices.

Of course she does. She’s the best spy in UNCLE. There was no way she wouldn’t have seen the way Illya’s little crush has been fanned into something else entirely. But Illya had still held out hope, just a little, that she would at least ignore it.

The two of them all but stagger through the door of the coffee shop early one morning, after a hellish month in Hong Kong and mainland China, and Napoleon immediately starts making them coffees. Gaby grins at Illya when Napoleon turns his back to get some food. “You’re screwed,” she says, leaning over until her head rests on his shoulder. “ _So_ screwed. You _like_ him.”

“And we have resorted to being ten year old children in three seconds,” Illya mutters. “Fantastic. Can you leave it alone?”

“Nope. Shan’t.” Gaby tucks herself into his side, careful of the bruises she knows span most of his left torso. Too many windows were jumped out of on this mission, and Illya is feeling it. “You know he lights up every time you walk in here, right?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Illya says to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and letting himself finally relax, the tension slowly beginning to drain out of him as he breathes in the smell of roasted coffee and melting butter. “It’s nothing, chop shop girl.”

“Oh, really?” Gaby asks. “He knows you’re gay, right?”

Illya hums. “Told him when we were putting up those pride flags. Before we left for Hong Kong, I don’t know if you ever saw them.”

“No, I did pop my head in a couple days before we left and saw them,” Gaby says. She settles a little more into his side. “Proud of you, by the way.”

Illya is saved from having to say anything by Napoleon’s return. “Here, get this down you,” he says, putting coffees down in front of them and a plate of pastries. “Fresh out of the oven.”

“Are those sfogliatelle?” Gaby asks. “Ooh, you do know how to spoil us.” She grabs one and takes a bite. “Oh my god, this is incredible. Where did you learn to bake like this?”

“Oh, I spent quite a while in Italy,” Napoleon says, perching on the edge of the coffee table and stealing one for himself. “Where I ended up after leaving the military, and where I fell in love with Italian food.” He huffs a laugh. “And art, I suppose.”

Gaby hums. “So, Solo,” she says, in a tone of voice that instantly makes Illya tense. “I think we can all agree that mine and Illya’s work-life balance is a bit out of whack.”

Napoleon arches a brow. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but you two you look utterly exhausted. When did you get back from wherever you were this time?”

“Last night, bit before midnight,” Illya says, nursing his own cup of coffee. It’s the horchata latte that Gaby loved so much the first time they ever walked into this shop, and it’s just as divine as he remembers. “But jet lag, so neither of us slept much.”

“Anyway,” Gaby says, watching Napoleon over the rim of her mug. “I think Illya here needs to let his hair down a little, figuratively of course. Any guys you know looking for a date?”

Napoleon pauses, mouth full of pastry. “Um…no?” he says eventually. “I mean- I can ask, Peril? If you want?”

Illya wants to believe that he’s not just imagining the reluctance on Napoleon’s face, the hesitation in his voice as he turns to him. “Ignore chop shop girl, Cowboy,” he says, clasping his hands around his mug and letting the warmth seep into his hands. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. I do not want to date any random friends of yours.”

Gaby elbows him in the side when Napoleon gets up to tend to the counter. “Did you see his face?” she hisses gleefully. “He looked so disappointed! You seriously cannot believe that you don’t have a chance here.”

“You,” Illya says, his eyes tracking Napoleon as he works behind the counter, “are incorrigible. Absolutely impossible.”

“Believe me, I’m well aware.” Gaby tucks herself against his side. “Pass me another sfogiatella. And then we should eventually haul ourselves across the road and up to Waverly’s office. If only to fall asleep in our office instead of here after the debriefing.”

Illya resists the urge to groan. “Fine. But I am going home at lunchtime.”

“You mean you’re coming down here to see Solo at lunchtime,” Gaby says slyly. She leans into him, spilling pastry crumbs on Illya’s trousers as she eats the sfogiatella. “It’s okay. I’ll learn to cope with your dramatic and heartbreaking betrayal, I suppose.”

“What, that I abandoned you for coffee?” Illya asks, brushing the crumbs away. “It was tough decision, but I prefer smell of coffee instead of engine oil in the morning.” He sips at his coffee. “Do you think Waverly will let us have time off after this?”

“I heard that we might be sent off for a milk run in the States,” Gaby says. “Something to do with inter-agency diplomacy, I think. God knows why they’re sending us for that, we’re hardly the best choice for any diplomatic mission, but Waverly mostly does seem to know what he’s doing.”

Illya scoffs. “Maybe he wants worse relations with other agencies, if he is sending us. But it would be nice to not have to jump out of any windows for a while.” He suppresses a wince as he shifts on the sofa, the bruises down his side making themselves more known as exhaustion begins to creep in. He twists to look over at Napoleon behind the counter. “Cowboy, what is legal limit for how much caffeine you can give us again?”

“No legal limit, but ethically I’m limiting the both of you to four shots of espresso each,” Napoleon replies. “Need to get moving?”

“If either of us can get up from this extremely comfortable sofa,” Gaby says. “But yes, we should go to work.” She groans and gets to her feet. “I’ll go up, see what’s waiting for us. Bring me coffee or suffer, darling.”

“I know, I know,” Illya says. “I don’t want to get stabbed by your screwdriver again, chop shop girl.”

“Again?” Napoleon asks. “Gaby, darling, you scare me sometimes. And I’ve known a lot of rather terrifying women.”

Gaby winks at him. “Good. Illya, remember my coffee or there will be consequences.” She grins at him. “Have fun without me, boys.”

Napoleon looks up from the espresso machine as the door swings shut behind her. “I think the only fun you’re going to be having soon is a nap, Peril,” he says wryly. “You look exhausted.”

“Caffeine will keep me going until lunchtime,” Illya grunts, slowly pushing himself to his feet. He hesitates as Napoleon hands him two cups of coffee. “Sorry about Gaby springing that question on you, Cowboy. She has no boundaries sometimes.”

Napoleon’s hand brushes against his as he hands the coffees over. “It’s fine. You’re not staying in the office all day today, right?”

“Until lunchtime,” Illya says, trying not to stare down at where Napoleon’s hand brushed his, the hairs standing up on his forearm as he suppresses a shiver.

“Great, I’ll whip something up for lunch. Some fresh pasta, maybe, to make sure you leave the office when you say you’re going to.” Napoleon grins at him, and Illya can feel his heart lurch pathetically. “See you soon, Peril.”

“You are _whipped_ , darling,” Gaby says when she sees his expression as he enters their office. “Utterly whipped. I assume you’ve already promised him that you’ll be out of here by lunchtime.”

“He already promised to make some fresh pasta,” Illya admits, handing her a coffee. “He always makes too much, so I’m sure you can come for lunch as well.”

“Ooh, you’re _both_ whipped,” Gaby says with a grin. “For each other. Couldn’t be more perfect.” She breathes in the steam rising from the cup. “We’ll see. Fresh pasta is very tempting, but I would hate to eat into your precious date time.”

“It’s not a- I’m not- we aren’t…” Illya shuts his mouth, glaring at her. “Stop interfering.”

“Me? I’m not doing anything,” Gaby says. She leans back in her desk chair, cradling her coffee in her hands. “I’m just telling you what I’ve observed. And then sitting back and watching the show.”

Illya sticks her tongue out at her. He always turns into a child around her, he can’t help himself. “Drink your coffee. And then we need to debrief with Waverly in ten.”

“How do you know that and I don’t?” Gaby asks. She turns to her computer and wiggles the mouse. “God, I should really check my emails more often.”

Illya hums, breathing in the smell of the coffee from the cup in his hands. Napoleon has put a lot of sugar and cream in this one, just enough to cover up the bitterness of four espresso shots, and he drinks half of it in one go whilst trying not to think too hard about the fact that Napoleon always makes him a different type of coffee every time he walks into the shop, and has apparently learnt exactly how sweet his tooth is.

His phone buzzes in his pocket as he sets his coffee down and turns to his computer, and keeps buzzing. Illya fumbles for it, accepting the call just before it rings out. “Hello?”

There’s silence over the line.

“This was a mistake.”

“Markos?” Illya sees Gaby straighten out of the corner of his eye, turning towards him. He clutches the phone closer to his ear. “Markos, are you okay?”

There’s a long, bitter laugh that sends shivers skittering down Illya’s spine. “I- I shouldn’t have called. Sorry, Illya, I- don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

“Markos, _don’t hang up_.”

Illya takes a breath, trying to push the snarl out of his voice. He’s too tired for this. He can barely keep the phone from shaking at his ear. The grip he has on all that rage, all that fury that had surfaced, writhing and boiling and burning through him with every moment when he had finally realised what had been done to him in the name of the country he can’t help but love, it’s so thin. And he’s so tired.

“Markos,” he says, dropping into a chair. “Just listen to me. Waverly, he can do for you what he did for me. He can. I can make him do that. But I can’t walk into Moscow and get you. You have to come to me.”

He presses the heel of his hand into his eye, rubbing his face. “You have to come to me. I know, _I know_ it’s more complicated, but we can help. I will help. But you have to come to me, you have to get out first. I promise you, I’ll be here. I will.”

“You can’t make that promise.”

The defeat in his voice makes something in Illya crumble slightly. Even more so, because he knows it’s true. He could be anywhere in the world if Markos finally decides to get out. The chances of him being in London, or somewhere Markos could get to him, are too small.

“I know,” he mutters. “I- if I’m not here, then there’s a coffee shop opposite the back door. Go there. Ask for Napoleon Solo. He’ll help you. I promise he’ll help you.”

“I- Illya. I don’t know if I _can_.”

The weight of Berlin and Italy, of a tape that could have won him everything he’d been fighting for since his father had been led away in handcuffs but that would have brought the world down around him. He can remember it like he’s still standing in that trashed hotel room, disc on the edge of the bed. Like he’s just stepped off the plane onto British soil and realised, for the first time, that he can’t go back. That what he’s done is too much to ever be forgiven.

That he doesn’t want to be forgiven anymore.

He can hear the same weight in Markos’ voice. The same one that nearly tore him apart as he abandoned everything that he’d ever known for a chance to do what he hoped desperately was right. It hurts. He remembers the hurt, the deep ache that had wrapped around his bones and clung to him, still clings to him even now on the worse days, the ones where he can smell pine and snow on the wind and know he’ll never have it back.

“I know,” Illya just says. “Markos. I know. But you can.”

There’s an unsteady breath over the line. “Bye, Illya.”

The line is dead before Illya can say another word. He breathes out, trying to quell the restless anger prowling to close beneath the surface. “Damn it,” he mutters. The plastic cracks under his hands. “That _fucking_ place!”

Gaby picks up his phone from where it hits the wall, rebounds and skids to a stop across her desk. “If you really, really want to, I can get us into Moscow. We take some time off, some of the holiday both of us have stacked up, we get across the border, we find Markos and we spirit him out to London. Waverly can put out any fires we start, and it’s not like you have any bridges left there that aren’t already on fire.” She hands his phone back, grabbing hold of his hand before he can pull back. “Illya. Darling. You only have to ask.”

He knows. Gaby is the one person in the world that Illya trusts to have his back in anything. That has never been the problem.

Reluctantly, he shakes his head. “It is not up to me,” he says. “Even if I could go in and get Markos and drag him out of there…it wouldn’t work. He has to make first decision, not me. Otherwise…Moscow would still have hold on him. He wouldn’t know if it was possible for him to leave on his own, if he was…good enough, I suppose, to leave. And he would go back.”

“He would?”

Illya steadily meets her gaze, those big brown eyes that always make him say things he doesn’t intend to but can’t regret speaking. “I nearly did. That mission in Turkey, about six months after Berlin and Italy? When we got back, I spent all night staring at plane tickets on my laptop. I packed a bag. And then you turned up at my door with breakfast and mimosas, and I stayed.”

Gaby’s hand tightens on his. “You would have gone back. Even after everything that happened in Italy? I know I don’t know much of Moscow, but I do know that burning the disc was enough to count as treason.”

Illya hums. “Yes. But I was- I _am_ , still, a soldier. The spetsnaz had me before Oleg did. And what’s the worst thing that a soldier can do? The very worst crime they can commit?”

Gaby shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

“The worst thing a soldier can do,” Illya says heavily, “is abandon your post. Put the other soldiers depending on you in danger, because they trust you, and you’re not there. That’s what it is, walking away from Moscow, for the ones who were spetsnaz first and still are, somewhere. Abandoning your post.” He breathes in. The rage from earlier has sunk and quietened, heavy in the bottom of his stomach and weighing him down. “So Markos has to come to me. On his own.”

“And telling him he can go to Solo if you’re not here?” Gaby sits back, reaching for her coffee. “That seems risky.”

“I doubt he ever will. Markos is many things, but trusting is not one of them. For him to go to Napoleon when he has no idea who he is, is very unlikely.” Illya shrugs. “It was more to give him the option. I’ll mention it to Cowboy, but I doubt it will come to that.”

“Well, if you ever need help, I’m happy to smuggle people across borders,” Gaby says. She presses a kiss to Illya’s forehead. “Drink your coffee, and then we better go. Waverly’s expecting us. There’s always more work to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're getting somewhere! I seem to always end up writing a scene where Illya comes out to Napoleon, it's very heartfelt and touching to write every time, and very much continues the theme of Illya opening up and being vulnerable to be met with love and support. And yep, Illya has had his 'uh-oh' moment. So now they both know what they want. They just have to get to a point that they know the other person also wants it, which is way harder. Gaby is of course loving every moment of this.
> 
> Its not actually technically illegal to fly a pride flag in Moscow, though Russia does not have a great track record when it comes to lgbt rights. Illya is coming at this from the pov of a government agent who had to be pretty damn paranoid his entire life about keeping his sexuality under wraps, and so has somewhat over-inflated the dangers in his own head.
> 
> What Illya says about a soldier's worst crime (obviously excluding actual crimes, of course) being abandoning their post isn't  
> a hard truth, but is true for someone like Illya. It puts not only yourself in danger, but all the other people who assume you are there and depending on you to keep them safe.
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are much loved.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fell off my horse again today because I am an idiot, so yay me. Here's another chapter because I'm tired and a bit bruised. We're getting close to it all going proverbially tits up, but we're not quite there yet. I'm dragging the torture out as much as I can (also I legit just couldn't stop writing in extra scenes before the Plot and Drama kicks in, I don't think any of you actually mind).
> 
> It's a bit of a longer one this time, because that's just how it fell out, but again, I don't think anyone minds. Content warnings for mild injuries and a racist idiot who is firmly shut down.

“Oh good, I don’t have to storm your office and drag you out of there.” Napoleon comes out from behind the counter. “I was expecting to have to go on the offensive to make sure you went home and slept at a reasonable time.”

“You wouldn’t even make it past the receptionist, Cowboy,” Illya says wearily. He lets his bag slip from his shoulder and stuffs it under his usual coffee table. He’s pretty sure the shirt he’d been wearing when he’d been shot is still stuffed in the bottom of it somewhere. It had only been a graze, but it still wouldn’t be great if someone saw a bloodied shirt falling out of his bag if he was careless.

Napoleon probably wouldn’t make it past the receptionist. Waverly likes to recruit British ex-military straight after they’ve been discharged. Illya has sparred with the current receptionist, a black belt in Japanese jiu jitsu who is six months out of the Royal Marines, and only just managed to hold his own. Napoleon would be flattened before he made it halfway across the lobby.

He’s halfway through a bowl of fresh pasta with some sort of fennel and olive sauce, Napoleon taking a break opposite him with his own bowl, when he pauses. “Can I ask you a favour, Cowboy?”

“Sure,” Napoleon says around a mouthful of pasta. “I mean, if you want me to lower the price of my coffee or start giving everything away for free, then we’ll have to have a conversation about how your socialist tendencies are not the best thing for running a business and you literally left school at sixteen to go shoot things, but sure.”

Illya hesitates, and Napoleon frowns. “A more serious favour, then?”

“There is friend of mine, back in Moscow. He…I can’t explain most of it. It is very complicated. But he is in bad situation he can’t get out of, not yet. I would go and get him out of there myself, but…”

“No, you’re right,” Napoleon says. “You can’t just pull someone out of a situation like that if they aren’t committed to going. He has to take the first step.”

Illya takes another bite of the pasta. “Exactly. But I’m worried-” He huffs a brief laugh. “About a lot of things. But if he decides to get away from Moscow, I might not be here. I might be halfway around the world for my job. And if I am, and he is here when I’m not, then he might just turn around and go straight back to Moscow.”

Napoleon hums. “Well, if I can help in any way-”

“I already told him he could go to you,” Illya admits. He winces. “I should have asked, but he called this morning and I- I’m worried about him. I’ve known him since- since I left school to go shoot things, as you say. It is more complicated for him than it was for me.” He goes to rub a hand over his face, only remembering at the last moment that there’s a fork in his hand and he’s about to stab his own eye out with it. “I know I can’t explain much-”

Napoleon waves a hand. “If he comes to me, I’ll do what I can to help. You trust him, and I trust you, so it all works out. Now, eat your pasta before you fall asleep. Don’t think I didn’t notice you nearly stabbing yourself in the eye with your fork just then. Are you in London for a while now?”

Illya dutifully spears another piece of pasta. “Don’t know,” he gets out around the mouthful. “Might have to go over to Washington for week or so, but only for meetings. We might be able to get Waverly to spring for two hotel rooms as well, if we are lucky and Gaby is persuasive enough.”

“Height of luxury,” Napoleon says with a grin. “If you have time, you should check out the Smithsonian, they normally have some interesting exhibits. And the archives there are incredible. They have so much stored down in the basements that barely ever sees the light of day.”

Illya hums, concentrating on staying awake as Napoleon starts enthusing about art and whatever the Smithsonian has in its basements. His left side aches, the last window he jumped out of still making itself known, and the armchair that all the regulars now know as his is so comfortable. His eyes flicker shut without him really having any say in it

The bowl is carefully pulled from his grip and there’s a faint clatter as it’s set down on the side. Illya tries to summon some energy to get up, to open his eyes, but before he can do more than stir there’s a gentle pressure on his hand, a hand squeezing his. “Don’t worry, Peril,” Napoleon murmurs, his hand lingering for a few long moments. “You’re alright.”

He’s woken some time later, opening his eyes to see Gaby settling into the sofa opposite. “Don’t worry, I didn’t take any pictures of you napping,” she says with a grin. “I already have enough embarrassing photos of you.”

“I have just as many of you, remember,” Illya reminds her. He sits up with a wince. “Where’s Cowboy?”

“In the back, doing something with chocolate. He said he’ll bring out samples in a bit.” She sips at her coffee. “Maybe I’ll ask him about dates for you again. See what his reaction is. Ooh, if I could orchestrate a heartfelt confession from him and film it, it could go viral.”

“Yes, because part of the job of being secret agents is going viral,” Illya says wryly. “You’re not going to leave it alone, are you?”

“Never,” Gaby says triumphantly. “Oh, Waverly does want us in Washington, by the way, but it’s not time sensitive. We can have a week here before we have to be on a plane. And yes, it is for inter-agency diplomacy. Someone Waverly used to know in his Circus days wants a little help with something over at the State Department. Bit beneath us, but then if he sends us, he’ll get some favours in return. You know how it is.”

Illya hums. As long as they’re not working with the CIA, then he’ll manage. The CIA have an overinflated sense of their own importance, and they’re impossible to work with. Especially as soon as they hear Illya’s accent, even though they’ve been told time and time again that UNCLE is an international organisation, and that Illya has had no affiliation with the SVR for three years.

They hash out some of the details, as much as they can in public, as customers filter in and out of the coffee shop. Napoleon is behind the counter, and if Illya occasionally trails off to watch his hands as he makes coffee, barely looking at the cup as he feathers steamed milk into coffee, only Gaby seems to notice. “Look at your face,” she says with an actual cackle. “Oh, darling. This is the best entertainment I’ve had in _years_.”

Illya picks up a book from the shelves along the side, half-listening to Gaby as she talks to him about her latest engineering problem. The buzz of the shop around them, normal civilians just going about normal lives and being enabled in their caffeine addictions, slowly lets him relax, lets him and Gaby pretend for an afternoon that they’re just regular people.

“Hey, Peril?”

Illya looks up from his book. Gaby glances up from where she’s taken some design sketches out of her bag and spread them across the coffee table, and then looks straight back down to her sketches. Napoleon is leaning over the counter towards him. “Do you speak Polish?”

“Some. Why?”

Napoleon inclines his head at two women standing at the counter. “They need directions, and my Polish is abysmal.”

“You just want me to do all the work for you,” Illya says, but he gets to a feet and dusts off the Polish that he knows. “How can I help?”

He’s halfway through translating directions to the Globe Theatre and Napoleon’s recommendations for where to go for lunch when there’s an angry snort behind him. “Fucking immigrants,” someone spits. “Speak English, for fuck’s sake. God, this is why we should just chuck you all out.”

Illya spins on his heel, putting himself between the two women and the man now in front of him. Big, but with the type of muscle that’s more for show than for use. No semblance of a stance or anything indicating he knows how to do anything but throw a wild punch.

“I’m sorry, what did you just say?”

Napoleon steps out from behind the counter, his face stone. Illya has never heard his voice so cold. “What did you just say?” he asks again.

“You heard me the first time,” he spits. He turns to Illya, who pushes the women back further behind him. “Fucking immigrants. You don’t belong here.”

“Fuck you,” Illya snaps back. He sees Gaby get up out of the corner of his eye, circle around until she’s behind the man. “This entire country is built on immigrants, you idiot. There would be nobody to do all the shit jobs you think you’re too good for, no doctors to treat you _for free_ , and nobody to make your coffee if it was not for immigrants.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m an immigrant.” Napoleon steps forwards again, arms folded as he stares the man down. “I’m not going to argue with you over this. You’re wrong. And I want you to get out of this shop.”

“How dare- you can’t make me leave!” the man spits. “I demand to speak to your manager!”

Napoleon laughs in his face. “Great! I’m the manager. And the owner. And I’m telling you to fuck off before I call the police.”

“Cowboy,” Illya warns, watching the man visibly redden and scowl in front of them. His fists are clenched at his sides. He steps forwards, catching Gaby’s eye and nodding at her before turning to the man. “You need to leave these women alone, and you need to leave.”

Gaby slips around the side and gently pulls the women further back. Other people in the coffee shop are on their feet now, and a few step forwards to form a barrier between them and the man, whose face is turning bright red. “How dare you talk to me like that!”

Illya carefully takes a step back, putting his hands into his pockets. It would be a bad idea to physically throw this man out onto the street, no matter how much he wants to. “You need to leave,” he says again. “Now.”

Napoleon throws his hands up into the air. “Fuck this. I’m calling the police. They can deal with your racist, xenophobic ass.” He reaches for his phone.

Illya sees the punch coming in slow motion. The man swings out in an uncontrolled roundhouse. Illya moves forwards but he knows he’s too far away to do anything but shout as the man swings at Napoleon. The sound of his fist connecting with Napoleon’s face, and then the sound of Napoleon’s head connecting with the granite counter as he falls back, reverberates through him.

He’s moving before he even thinks about it. He slams into the man, shoves him back and away from Napoleon. He fights back, but Illya grabs hold of his collar and digs his knuckles into either side of his neck. The anger disappears from the man’s face, replaced with panic as Illya holds him in place, pushing his knuckles into the carotid arteries in his neck and watching as the man’s eyes widen as the blood supply to his brain is slowly cut off every time he struggles.

“Peril.”

A hand lands on his arm. “Peril. Let go of him. He’s a twat, I know. But you can let go of him. He’s not worth this.”

The man struggles in his hands. “Seriously, don’t make this worse for you,” Napoleon snaps at him. His hand gently squeezes Illya’s arm, pulling him back until Illya can’t do anything but let go. His hand clenches on empty air.

Gaby is there, all five foot five of her shoving the man back out of the shop. Illya wants to follow her. He wants to shove that man up against a wall and make sure he never comes anywhere near this shop again. But Napoleon’s hand is on his arm.

A shiver runs through his body as Napoleon hand tightens on his arm. He makes himself turn away from the door. “Are you okay, Cowboy?”

Napoleon blinks. “Yeah, I’m fine, Peril.” His hand goes up to the back of his head. “I think the counter hurt more than the punch…”

He trails off. His hand comes away from the back of his head. There is blood on his fingertips.

“Oh.”

Illya darts forwards and catches Napoleon’s arm, taking his weight as he suddenly sways where he stands. “Cowboy? Napoleon. Come here, sit down.” He pushes Napoleon back into a nearby chair, crouching down next to him. “Let me look.”

There’s blood starting to trickle down the back of Napoleon’s neck, the skin split where he struck the counter. Illya grabs a towel from the counter and presses it to the gash. “I’ll call an ambulance,” someone says behind them.

“What?” Napoleon jerks his head up and then hisses, gripping Illya’s arm as his face whitens abruptly. “No, I don’t need an ambulance. I’m fine. It’s fine.”

His cheek is turning red where he was hit, spreading across to one eye. “Someone get ice from behind the counter,” Illya snaps over his shoulder. “And call ambulance. Where is Gaby?”

“Your friend? I think she followed that man out of the shop to make sure he was gone.” One of the customers ducks behind the counter and wraps a handful of ice up in a tea towel. “Police are on their way. I’ve worked a till before. I bet I can get his receipt off the till and get his name.”

“Good,” Illya growls. He eases the towel from the back of Napoleon’s head, now bright red with the blood soaked into it. Head wounds always bleed a lot, and it looks like it will only be a few stitches at the most, but he still has to wrestle down and sit on that instinct to get up, find that man, and make him bleed a bit in return.

Though Gaby is following him. She can be just as deadly when she wants to be, and the police always find it much easier to believe her than Illya.

He puts the ice in Napoleon’s hand, and brings it up to his eye when Napoleon just stares at it. “Cowboy? Napoleon? Do you know where you are?”

Napoleon frowns. “Coffee shop,” he says slowly. “I’m not concussed.”

“You are white as a sheet,” Illya says firmly. “And you are going to need stitches. We are calling an ambulance.” He presses his fingers to Napoleon’s wrist, concentrating on his pulse. “Fast, but not too fast. Keep that ice on your eye. Your head is still bleeding.”

“Head wounds bleed a lot,” Napoleon mutters. He glances around the shop, at the various people hovering around him. “Where is he?”

“Threw him out,” Illya says, trying to keep a growl out of his voice. “Gaby is making sure he is gone, and we are trying to get his name off receipt from the till for the police. You have CCTV, yes?”

“Only on the entrance. I can get the- the videos, the recordings from the back.” Napoleon tries to get to his feet, only for his face to whiten even more and to sink back down into the chair. “Oh.”

“Cowboy?”

Napoleon blinks, letting his head fall forwards onto Illya’s shoulder. “My head hurts.”

Illya presses the towel more firmly to the back of his head. The blood is starting to seep through the other side, warm and wet against his hand. “I know. Ambulance is on its way.”

“This is why I don’t like lots of people,” Napoleon mutters into Illya’s shoulder. “Everyone is horrible.”

Illya can’t bring himself to disagree. “Didn’t see it,” Napoleon mutters, the ice in the tea towel slowly dripping onto Illya’s shirt. “Never saw it. I was such an idiot. Everyone just wants to use you. They just- just want what they can get from you, and then they’ll leave you to rot when you’re not useful anymore.” He sits up abruptly, free hand reaching for Illya and haphazardly patting the side of his face. “Not you. ‘Course not you. Or Gaby. You’re best friend I’ve ever had.”

“Cowboy?” Illya grips Napoleon’s shoulder as he wavers. “Cowboy, talk to me. How are you feeling?”

“Dizzy,” Napoleon mutters. “Bit sick. I’ll be fine, Peril.” He sways forwards, his forehead resting back on Illya’s shoulder. “My head hurts.”

Illya peels the towel away. The bleeding has slowed down but not quite stopped yet. “I know, Cowboy,” he says softly. “Help is coming.”

There’s a touch on his arm. One of the customers is hovering there, the one who went behind the counter to get the ice. “I got the man’s name off the receipt,” she says, handing the receipt over. “A couple of us are going to wait outside for the police and the paramedics, and a couple more are going to wait with the two women he was harassing. They’re okay, by the way, and they’re very grateful for what you and your boyfriend did. They’ve said they will stay and talk to the police as well, if you want to get your boyfriend off to the hospital.”

“No, no hospitals,” Napoleon mutters into Illya’s shoulder. “I’m fine.”

“You need stitches,” Illya says firmly. He ignores the flutter in his chest at the word _boyfriend_. It’s just a misunderstanding. There’s no point trying to correct her now, not if it’ll make it easier for him to go with Napoleon to the hospital. “You are going to hospital.”

The paramedics turn up within minutes, heading straight for Napoleon. “He was hit in the face, fell back and hit the back of his head on the counter, splitting the skin,” Illya lists off as they start unpacking their kit. “Bleeding has slowed but not stopped. He feels dizzy, and nauseous, but hasn’t been sick. No loss of consciousness, no apparent loss of memory or slurred speech. No allergies, no medical conditions.”

“You’re not a medic,” Napoleon mutters as the paramedics peel the bloody towel away and start pressing gauze to the wound. “I’m fine.”

“I have extensive medical training, and you are getting stitches,” Illya says firmly. He adjusts the ice on Napoleon’s face. “You’ll be fine, Cowboy. I’ll come with you to hospital, okay?”

“Don’t worry, Sir, we’ll take good care of your partner,” one of the paramedics says. “But I believe the police want to talk to you about the assault? We’ll let you know when we’re heading to the hospital, and you can ride along in the back of the ambulance.”

Illya looks over his shoulder. Two police officers are hovering intently. “I’ll be right back, Cowboy.”

Gaby comes through the door as the officers are finishing taking his statement. “I followed him a bit down the road to make sure he was leaving. He’s in a bar down the road, ranting at a bartender about immigrants. Hello, officers. The man you want to arrest might not be there for very long. I think the bartender is getting annoyed and you might have a repeat offender on your hands pretty soon.” She glances over at the paramedics. “Are you heading off to hospital with him?”

“I’ll go in the back of the ambulance.” Illya winces as the paramedics prod at Napoleon’s bruised cheek. “He definitely has concussion. Kept muttering about how horrible people are.”

“That’s not symptoms of a concussion, that’s just the truth,” Gaby says. “You should go with him to the hospital. I can handle things here, make sure that the shop is locked up properly, the police are happy, all of that. You look after Napoleon.”

“We’ll stop by the hospital to get a statement from your partner,” one of the officers says. “Here’s my number if you need to get in contact with us, but we’ll meet you at the hospital and talk further about the next steps to take there. You look after your partner first, okay?” He has a kind face, and Illya is sure if he was a normal civilian, he would be reassured.

It’s kind of hard being reassured when he’s seen what can happen when head injuries are left untreated, but he lets the police officer shepherd him outside to the waiting ambulance, where Napoleon is sat with a paramedic taking his blood pressure. “Hey, Peril,” he murmurs. “How’re you doing?”

“Much better than you, Cowboy,” Illya says, clambering up into the back of the ambulance. “Gaby is going to shut up the shop and then bring your keys and bag to hospital to meet us there. We have it all sorted.”

The paramedic glares at him until he sits down and puts on a seatbelt. Napoleon winces with every jolt of the ambulance as they move through the ever-present London traffic, his face steadily growing whiter and whiter. “This sucks,” he mutters.

“Believe me, I know.” Illya shifts and the paramedic fixes him with a stern look until he stops fiddling with his seat belt. “You’ll be fine, Cowboy. They’ll stitch up the cut, maybe do scans to make sure you didn’t knock anything else loose up there and load you up with painkillers that will make you even more loopy than usual, and then they’ll send you home.”

“I resent that,” Napoleon mutters. “’m not _loopy_.” He winces as the ambulance swings around a corner and his face, if possible, gets even paler.

“You feeling okay, Cowboy?”

Napoleon presses his lips together and shakes his head. “Can you give him an anti-emetic?” Illya asks the paramedic.

“Not at the moment, without knowing if there’s anything else beside the probable concussion. Here, have a bowl.” The paramedic presses a bowl into Napoleon’s lap. “Were you a medic at some point, then?”

“Not medic, but military,” Illya says. “Seen my fair share of concussions. Had my fair share as well. Though not normally because I got punched by bigot and hit head on my own counter.”

The paramedic huffs a laugh as Napoleon, lips still pressed firmly together and eyes now squeezed shut, holds up his middle finger in Illya’s vague direction. “I imagine what we see day to day is pretty different to what you’ve seen in a war zone. A lot fewer gunshot wounds, a lot more stupidity.”

Illya snorts. “You’d be surprised.”

Napoleon tries to insist on walking into hospital when they arrive. He gets about an inch off the stretcher before his face goes white and he sits heavily back down. “Told you so,” Illya mutters, grabbing his and Napoleon’s coats as the paramedics get him out of the back of the ambulance. “Let the professionals do their job, Cowboy.”

Illya hates the smell of hospitals. That sharp tang of antiseptic and plastic is the first thing that coats his tongue as he walks in, but he can never fully convince himself that he can’t smell blood beneath it all, that if he breathes deeply enough he won’t smell blood and sand and the heat of the desert searing them to the bone. He makes himself keep walking, shallow breaths through his mouth, and follows the paramedics through A&E.

Illya watches the next couple of hours pass in a blur of nurses and doctors from the corner of a bay, Napoleon ferried to have scans and get sutures in the back of his head and then back again to be observed for a while whilst police turn up, hover for a bit, and then leave. At some point, someone makes him a cup of weak tea. Illya drinks it, to a muttered remark about betrayal from a somewhat drugged-up Napoleon, instincts to not waste food overriding how much he hates the taste of weak tea.

“You doing okay, Peril?”

Illya looks up from texting Gaby. “Me?” he asks. He assesses Napoleon, sitting up on the hospital bed. He looks better, face less pale than it was previously, but he’s a little unfocused, the painkillers they’ve given him putting him out of it a little. “I’m not the one with concussion, Cowboy. Are you still feeling sick?”

“Not really. And I can tell you don’t like hospitals, Peril.” Napoleon sits up a little on the bed with a wince. “You can get out of here, if you want.”

“Not leaving you here alone and you know it,” Illya says firmly. They’ve had this argument nearly four times over the past few hours, though each time Illya has been backed up by the nurses and Napoleon’s argument has weakened further. “Gaby has finished sorting out the shop and everything with police. She’ll drop the keys and your bag off at my flat and then meet us here if she has time.”

“Illya.” Napoleon moves to sit on the edge of the bed, wincing at the movement. “I know you. I can tell that you’re not super happy about being sat in a hospital or watching me get stitched up. You can go home. I can manage for myself.”

“Not happening.” Illya sits back and crosses his arms. “I’m staying until they discharge you, and then you are coming home with me so I can keep eye on you. Nurses have already briefed me on how to deal with concussions. Not that I need reminding.”

Napoleon hums. “And I bet you don’t need reminding of all the shit you’ve probably had to go through in various hospitals around the world, either.” He levels Illya with a look. “I’m not an idiot.”

“You are concussed, and have much less of a filter right now,” Illya reminds him. “Or do I need to watch more painful attempts to flirt with nurses?”

Napoleon gives him an odd look. “It isn’t flirting, it’s just being nice to them. I wouldn’t flirt with anyone else, I- well, I’m definitely not flirting with them.” He sighs, reaching for the back of his head before remembering the gauze taped there, and dropping his hand to his lap. His cheek and eye are spectacular shades of purple beginning to deepen into blue. “You don’t have to be here if you don’t want to.”

His voice is small. Illya gives in to instinct and gets to his feet, crossing the short distance to the hospital bed. “Move over,” he mutters, prodding at Napoleon until he shifts up on the bed, and then sits down next to him. “Stop worrying,” he says. “Everything will be fine. British police are not so bad, and we have ten witnesses who have all told police about harassment. They have stepped up laws on hate crimes recently. He’ll be prosecuted.”

Napoleon hums. He leans into Illya’s side with a tired sigh. “Good thing you didn’t hit the man back,” he murmurs into Illya’s shoulder. “Or everything would be much more complicated.”

“I wanted to,” Illya says quietly. He still wants to. If he saw him right now, he’s not sure what he would do to him. But he wouldn’t stop at a single punch.

A hand covers his. Illya starts, turning to Napoleon. Napoleon doesn’t look up from where he’s studying the hospital floor, but his fingers slowly slip around Illya’s hand. Illya can feel the warmth of his hand in his, the soft skin beneath his fingers, and a rush spreads deep beneath his skin. “Glad you didn’t, Peril,” Napoleon murmurs, leaning heavily into his side. “Glad you’re here.”

Illya carefully, so carefully, threads his fingers with Napoleon’s and holds on. “Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, Cowboy.”

0-o-0-o-0

Napoleon is stumbling over his own feet from exhaustion by the time he’s discharged and Illya can bundle him into a taxi and take him to his apartment. Gaby meets them there, handing over Illya’s bag that he’d stashed under the coffee table what feels like days ago, and Napoleon’s things. “The police found him,” she tells Illya as Napoleon changes out of his bloodied shirt and into a spare of Illya’s in the bathroom. “He’s been arrested. Waverly is not completely happy that we’ve gotten ourselves involved in this, but at least he can put a word in, get everything sorted quickly. How is he?”

“Concussed,” Illya says wryly. “You know how it is.”

Gaby hums. “Given the amount of times I’ve had to lug your arse into hospital with them and then look after you afterwards, yes, I do.” She leans back with a sigh, looking around the kitchen. “God, I’m knackered. We should make some food and then all go to sleep.”

“You staying here tonight?” Illya asks. “I can pull out some blankets, sleep on the floor. You can have the sofa.”

“Oh, such a gentleman. I assume Solo gets the bed?” Gaby shakes her head. “You should really invest in a second bed, or at least a pull-out sofa.”

“Why? Whenever you are here and get too drunk to go home, we always share my bed and you inevitably steal all of the covers. It is not like I am here enough to spend unnecessary money on another bed.”

“What, do I hear Peril’s socialist tendencies coming through again?” Napoleon appears in the hallway, leaning against the wall with a wobble. He’s in a borrowed pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt of Illya’s that is too tight across the shoulders. “Also, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Illya is on his feet before he even thinks about it, steadying Napoleon with a hand on his elbow. “Sit down before you fall over. I’ll make something to eat.”

He doesn’t think he’s imagining the way Napoleon leans into his touch. He’s definitely not imagining how he lets his hand linger on Napoleon’s shoulder before he turns away to the stove. “You are concussed, Cowboy,” he says over his shoulder. “You get the bed.”

Napoleon is argued down with little fuss. He’s stumbling again when they get up after dinner, and Illya wraps an arm around his waist to steady him. “Don’t faceplant, or you will give yourself another black eye,” Illya warns as they navigate the hallway to his bedroom.

Napoleon huffs a laugh against his shoulder. “At least I’ll be symmetrical.” He almost falls over the threshold, Illya catching him at the last moment and pulling him back up, his weight resting against him. “Thanks, Peril.”

“Get some sleep,” Illya says, instead of the hundred other things he wants to say or do. “I’ll wake you every two hours, make sure you haven’t knocked something loose up there.”

Napoleon’s eyes are already flickering shut as he falls onto the pillows. “Why, Peril. You say the sweetest things.”

0-o-0-o-0

Something is buzzing. Illya jerks awake, reaching for a weapon that isn’t there before he remembers where he is and why his phone is buzzing on top of the coffee table. He silences the alarm. It’s one in the morning and the flat is dark, but he spent nearly a week learning how to move around it in the pitch darkness until he was certain he could find anything and upstage any intruder. It’s easy enough to find his way through to his bedroom.

Napoleon is almost invisible, tangled up amongst the duvet. Illya finds his shoulder and gently shakes him. “Cowboy. Wake up.”

Napoleon starts awake, lashing out with one hand blindly. “Easy, Cowboy,” Illya says, easily dodging him and grasping his wrist. “It’s me.”

Napoleon pauses, and then groans. “Christ, Peril,” he mutters. “Again?”

“Need to check you’re not in coma,” Illya says frankly. “What is the date?”

Napoleon groans again, sitting up. “Ow,” he mutters, hand going to the back of his head. “Umm, October the…third. Or fourth, if it’s past midnight.” He blinks blearily up at Illya. “I’m in your apartment, my head really fucking hurts after a dick punched me and I hit it on the counter. And the prime minister is still somehow Boris Johnson.”

“Good, Cowboy. You can go back to sleep.”

Illya turns away, but a soft grip on his wrist stops him. “What’s wrong?” he asks, turning back to Napoleon. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Are you?” Napoleon asks. “You look exhausted. And I might be concussed, but I do remember how awful you looked this morning.”

This morning feels like days ago. “I’m fine,” Illya says, even though his entire body is aching. It doesn’t matter compared to Napoleon’s blood on his fingers, the way his face had whitened and he’d staggered into Illya’s side, the long hours sat next to a hospital bed trying to convince himself that he can’t smell blood baking in the desert sun.

“I’ve slept on that couch,” Napoleon reminds him. He hasn’t let go of Illya’s wrist and his thumb is smoothing across the soft skin of the inside of his wrist, back and forth over and over again. “It’s really uncomfortable, and you’re exhausted.”

“I can cope,” Illya says. He can’t bring it in himself to pull back away from Napoleon’s grip.

“Case in point is, Peril, you don’t have to.” Napoleon tugs him a little closer. “I’m in your own damn bed, and there’s plenty of space for both of us. You can’t be sleeping comfortably on that sofa. And this way, you don’t have to stumble around your flat in the dark to come and wake me up every few hours.”

Illya knows he shouldn’t. He knows that this won’t help anything. But he’s so tired.

He’s so tired of all of this.

He lets Napoleon tug him closer again until his knees hit the edge of the bed. Napoleon shifts over, eyes bright in the dark, and Illya slides into bed next to him. He can smell the faint scent of remnants of Napoleon’s aftershave on the pillow.

“Good night, Peril,” Napoleon says softly into the darkness.

“Night, Cowboy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured I'd even out the whump a little bit, though that is difficult when one of your main pair is a secret agent and the other runs a coffee shop. And they've graduated to hand holding, and to sharing a bed for Convenient Plot Reasons! I really did just throw all the tropes at this story to see which ones would stick. Plot is going to start to go down next chapter, so enjoy this whilst it lasts. I'm gonna be so cruel, y'all. You're not even going to believe it.
> 
> Oh, and apologies to anyone in the comments who I told was going to get a big clue as to Napoleon's backstory in this chapter- that's actually coming next chapter, I forgot how long this whole bit was and didn't have space to fit it in here.
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are much loved.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gotten up at or before six for most of this week, so forgive these notes if they're a little punchdrunk, I'm absolutely knackered. Anyway, new chapter! A bit of fluff, and then, as promised, the Plot begins.
> 
> In other news, real life has kicked up a gear a bit recently- even with a lockdown horses still need looking after! So this somewhat erratic posting schedule may become even more erratic, but there is plenty of story to come. I have got other tmfu stories in the works, mostly that Pride fic in the arts professor universe I've mentioned before, but I've been somewhat sidetracked by The Old Guard so it might be a little while before that's finished and publishable.
> 
> Content warnings for violent injuries in the latter half of the chapter.

“This perpetual dancing around each other really has got to end.”

Illya refuses to look at Gaby as they follow the American agent down the hallway. “Really, Gaby? Now?” He lengthens his stride, only for Gaby to easily match him. “Leave it alone.”

“You literally slept in the same bed together,” Gaby says, linking her arm with his. Illya is pretty sure that if he sped up again, she’ll just lift her feet up off the floor and let him carry her along with him. “That was a week ago! But no, you’re both far too stubborn to give in and actually talk to each other about it.”

Illya tries to ignore the looks of the various agents they pass by. “I- it is complicated.”

Gaby hums. “Seems like it would be less complicated if you just kissed him.”

Illya can feel his cheeks burning. “I- it…I am working up to it, okay? When we get back. I am going to talk to him.”

He can tell Gaby is grinning without even looking at her. “Proud of you,” she whispers in his ear. “Now, how many Americans do you think I can scare in one day? It’s our last day here, so either they’ve wised up and are immune, or they’re more intimidated than ever.”

“Nobody ever becomes fully immune to you, chop shop girl.” Illya knows he certainly hasn’t, even after three years of living out of each other’s pockets.

“Oh, darling, you do say the most wonderful things.”

“If I don’t, then I get stabbed with screwdrivers.” Illya dodges a jab from her knuckles into his ribs. “Or that happens.”

“Oh, you love it.” Gaby links her arm with his and pulls them on after the agent, into an office. “Please tell me nothing has blown up in the past hour since we got on the plane,” she says to him. “I would quite like to get back to London on time.”

The agent grimaces. “Well, I have good news and bad news, then. Nothing has blown up, but they’ve delayed your flight out until ten this evening. Bad weather on the east coast.” He perches on the edge of his desk. “The agency will extend their formal thanks for your assistance, wrapped up in nice pretty words that try to diminish how fucked we were without you coming in and lending a hand. All that jazz. But from me, and my team, thank you. We really needed your help.”

“Well, this way you owe us one,” Gaby says, offering her hand to shake. “I’m sure we’ll call you in at some point to pay us back.”

Illya nods along. It would have been fairly easy for him to throw the two of them under the bus, especially Illya, in a building where the Cold War still feels like it exists at some time. But they managed to be called in by a decent agent who actually seemed to care more about what they were trying to achieve than pleasing the bosses. Illya has already made a note to bring him up to Waverly the next time their boss is looking to poach some agents for himself.

“Nice painting,” Gaby says, nodding at the wall. There’s a framed painting of a bridge shrouded in haze, orange sunlight reflecting off the water. Illya can’t quite place the bridge, though it does look familiar, but the evenings spent wandering museums and galleries with Napoleon have paid off as the name of probable artists slowly surface in his mind.

The agent laughs. “Oh. That. It’s my…personal memento mori, I like to call it. A reminder of my own hubris. And that even the best mark can just…up and disappear, and that there’s fuck all you can do about it.”

“It is Monet,” Illya remarks. “Yes?”

“It is,” the agent replies, looking surprised. “A print. The original was stolen years ago, by a relatively unknown thief at the time that went by the name Prado. Possibly because that was where he pulled off his first big heist, though nobody is really sure. It put him on the map, when he stole that, and he proceeded to dominate it for the next eight years.” He nods at the painting. “I was part of a team that was being built to catch him about a year ago. Us, the British, French and Italians.” He huffs a laugh. “We were going to stick our necks out and ask UNCLE for some help, no matter how much it was probably below your pay grade. And then he just…disappeared. Some of the paintings turned up over the next few months, outside museum front doors or just in garage sales in the middle of Provence, but some, like that one, just…vanished.”

“The name sounds familiar,” Gaby muses, standing up on her tiptoes to look at the painting properly. “Prado. Bit below mine and Illya’s pay grades, like you said. Unless he was ever involved in smuggling? Arms dealing? Nice little homicide or two along the way?”

“Ha. No, none of that. Compared to some of his more…wild contemporaries, he was pretty tame. Went out of his way to avoid some of the worse things that the other thieves he ran with did, as far as we could tell.” The agent shrugs. “Still a thief, and still fucked people over, but not as bad as some others in the grand scheme of things.”

“Huh.” Gaby steps back down. “I’ll have to look him up. Illya, remind me to look him up when we get back to London.”

“Not a chance,” Illya says. “You will get caught up in your latest engineering project and forget all about it. Besides, it means paperwork, which you are actually allergic to.”

“Very true.”

The agent laughs again. “You know, I’d heard stories about the inseparable team, Kuryakin and Teller. They don’t really hold a candle to the real thing.”

Gaby arches a brow. “I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. Now, can you recommend any good restaurants in the area that won’t mind us killing some time there before our flight? I’d rather not sit in the airport lounge for hours.”

“It was intended as a compliment.” The agent gathers up some of the files strewn across his desk. “And yes, I do, but I can also offer one better. Come to my home and have dinner with me and my wife. I’ll drop you at the airport afterwards, it’s not far.” He stuffs some of the files into the filing cabinet, pushing it shut with an effort. “I promise it’ll be worth it. My wife is from Georgia, and she makes the best peach pie you’ll ever taste.”

“Peach pie?” Illya asks. He glances at Gaby. “Sounds good.”

Gaby sighs. “Oh, there are _so_ many things I want to tease you with right now. Never mind, I have all of the plane journey to do so.”

“Joy of joys,” Illya mutters. He turns to the agent. “If you think you and your wife can cope with us for dinner, then lead the way. Don’t let this one here have more than two glasses of wine, or we’ll all be sorry.”

0-o-0-o-0

Illya flies back to London with extensive notes on peach pie in his jacket pocket, and Gaby ribbing him mercilessly for the entire flight. He manages to distract her with an engineering question, one of the ones he comes up with in advance to keep her occupied when she’s about to run circles around him, and they make it to the office before Gaby finally runs out of steam and starts muttering about design sketches.

“So,” she says eventually as Illya is going through his bag and trying to work out whether he can get away with wearing one of the shirts again or if he needs to do laundry. “Solo. You’re going to talk to him?”

Illya fishes a stray empty clip out of the bottom of his bag. “You,” he says pointedly, “are insufferable.”

“And yet, somehow you love me anyway.” Gaby perches on the edge of her desk, turning a screwdriver over in her hands. “Illya. Darling. I will support you with whatever you choose to do. But I want you to be happy, and I can see that right now, you’re _so_ close to getting what you want. After _all_ the time you have spent nearly killing yourself for what we do. And what you used to do.” Her hands have stilled, the screwdriver dangling between her fingers. “I want you to be happy, darling. And I think you can have that with him.”

Illya has absolutely nothing he can say to that. Gaby hops off her desk and presses a kiss to his cheek. “Also, this way I can get free coffee for ever. So, you better not screw it up.”

“You are, as always, inspiring.” Illya sets the shirt aside and starts digging through the bottom of his bag for the book that Napoleon had lent him. “I’ll talk to him.”

“When?”

“What time is it?” Illya glances at his watch, and then slips it off his wrist when it says five in the morning. He might be jet-lagged, but he knows that it was light outside when they got into the office.

“About…ten in the morning,” Gaby says as Illya fiddles with his watch to get it right. He watches the clock on his phone, pushing the watch pin in right as it ticks over. “We have to debrief with Waverly and some analysts, and I want to have a word with Waverly about possibly recruiting that agent when he’s next looking to poach someone, but then I think we’re done for the day.”

Illya nods. “This afternoon, then.”

The nerves roiling uneasily in his stomach promptly try to crawl up and wrap around his throat to strangle him. He wrestles it back down enough to breathe, and Gaby hands him a bottle of water. “Keep calm, darling. You’ll be fine.”

Illya lets himself drop into his desk chair. “Will I?”

Gaby takes the bottle out of his hands and cracks the lid. “Yes. Of course. He _adores_ you, Illya. And if not, if it goes wrong, then come get me and we’ll go get drunk and then just never ever drink coffee ever again, okay?” She hands the bottle back. “Want to run me through what you’re going to say?”

The nerves don’t let up by the afternoon. Gaby presses a kiss to his cheek as he shoulders his bag. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

“Yes, because that is so inspiring,” Illya says wryly. He squares his shoulders, tries not to feel like he’s marching into a war zone, and heads downstairs.

The smell of roasted coffee and baking hits him as soon as he opens the door. There’s a low voice singing quietly over the low bustle of the shop that Illya now recognises as Pete Seeger. Napoleon is behind the counter, chatting with a customer.

“Peril!” Napoleon grins at him, pushing a customer’s drink across the counter. The smile on his face changes completely as he spots Illya and turns towards him. Illya has noticed the fake customer smile that Napoleon uses before, Napoleon has complained about it at length over lunch, but he’s never noticed it change like this when Napoleon sees him.

“How was the States?” Napoleon asks, already turning to start making another coffee for him.

“Boring,” Illya replies. He leans against the counter, and then decides that looks far too casual and straightens up again. “Lots of meetings. Lots of terrible coffee.”

“Yes, I do apologise for how bad the coffee is in the States.” Napoleon starts steaming some milk, jug resting in his palm as he judges the temperature by feel. He had tried to explain the intricacies of it to Illya once, but Illya doesn’t remember any of it anymore. He gave up on the latte art after two attempts and Napoleon laughing over his shoulder the entire time. “When you grow up there you think it’s fine, and then you go to Italy, or even here, and the coffee is just so much better. Most people don’t even know what they’re missing. Now, latte art requests? I’ll make you a bloody fern if you don’t say anything, and you know how much I hate them.”

“Just make whatever you want,” Illya says. He reaches into his pocket. “I have something for you.”

“Good something or bad something?” Napoleon asks. He starts preparing a shot of espresso.

Illya slides the pieces of paper across the counter. “We had dinner with a colleague and his wife, last night. She had lots to say about peach pies and different varieties. I thought…this might help? With trying to get yours right?”

Napoleon pauses. He turns to Illya, picking up the papers. “Thanks, Peril. Oh, interesting, there’s vinegar in the pie crust in this one. I’ve tried vodka crusts before, the alcohol evaporates off and gives a shorter texture, but I haven’t tried adding vinegar.” He flicks through the rest of the papers. “Oh, very nice, I hadn’t thought of blending peach varieties. Thanks, Peril, this is really useful.”

Illya shrugs. “I thought it would be. Also, Georgia. Peach pie.”

Napoleon huffs a brief laugh, staring down at the papers in his hands. “Very close. But no. My mother, she was from Georgia. That’s where her pie came from, her mother’s recipe handed down. But I’m not.” There’s a twist to his lips as he stares down at the papers, a smile long since worn down to a quiet echo.

He shakes himself a moment later, and turns to finishing the coffee on the counter. “Well. Here’s your coffee, Peril.”

He slides the mug across the table. There is a white foam heart within another heart intricately feathered onto the top.

Napoleon is talking about something as he wipes the counter down, eyes alight. His head tips back as he laughs, curls just starting to fall free across his forehead.

“Do you want to get dinner with me?”

Napoleon pauses, reaching behind him for another cloth. “If you’re around for a bit between jaunting off around the world, then sure. There’s a new film I was thinking of seeing, we could grab a bite to eat beforehand?”

Illya swallows. “I meant…as a date. Dinner. With me. On a date.”

“Oh.” Napoleon turns to him, and a smile, a real smile, curls his lips. “I would love to, Illya. Go on a date with you, that is.” He laughs, and reaches out with his hand, taking Illya’s where it rests on the counter. “I was going to ask you myself, actually. When I worked up the courage.”

Illya couldn’t stop the smile on his face, even if he wanted to. “Surprised I got there first, Cowboy?”

“Pleased,” Napoleon corrects. “Otherwise god knows how long we would have spent dancing around each other like idiots.” He squeezes Illya’s hand. “So. Where do you want to go?”

Illya’s phone buzzes in his pocket. And then buzzes again. And again.

“Sorry. I have to get this.” Illya pulls his phone out to see Gaby’s name on the screen, and _CRISIS_ in capital letters. Followed by texts just consisting of exclamation marks and typos. “Shit.”

“Everything okay?”

“I- I have to go.” He grasps Napoleon’s hand. “I’m sorry, something has happened at work. I have to go. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, I know it must be important.” Napoleon squeezes his hand. “When you get back, we’ll have dinner. As a date. Now go on, go fix whatever crisis has arisen. I’ll be here.”

0-o-0-o-0

He shoves his hand tighter against his side. The blood is warm and wet under his fingers, spilling out slowly over his hand no matter how hard he presses.

A car horn blares. Illya starts, other hand tightening on the steering wheel until his knuckles are white. The traffic light is green. He puts his foot down and the car jerks forwards, catching up with the traffic.

He’s so close. He just needs to keep it together for a little longer. He can’t let himself think about how it possibly could have gone this wrong, whether this could be his fault. He can’t wonder where the fuck Gaby is, whether she’s safe or if they found her too. He can’t slip into that so tempting darkness and lose consciousness over the steering wheel.

Illya grips his side tighter, trying to wad the fabric of his shirt up against it. The sharp stab of pain helps him focus, concentrate on the road ahead of him. He’s so fucking close.

The traffic crawls along excruciatingly slowly. Illya breathes in and breathes out and tries to ignore the stabbing pain shooting up and down his left side. It’s not fatal, but he can already feel the slight tremors running through him from blood loss. If he doesn’t get there soon, he’s not going to have much choice about collapsing over the steering wheel.

Finally, he turns off the road into the back alley. The car scrapes against the brick wall as he comes to a juddering stop. Illya just remembers to put the handbrake on and turn the engine off as he pushes the door open and falls out of the car onto the gravel.

“Shit.”

Illya drags himself to his feet. His legs don’t want to cooperate, and he stumbles forwards, slamming into the hood of the car that he borrowed. His hands come away with smears of blood left across the hot metal. The back door is just on the other side of the car. He just has to get there.

He staggers around the front of the car, pressing one hand tight into his side. Blood drips from between his fingers onto the gravel.

His legs give out on the last few steps. Illya collapses forwards, barely able to get a hand up to brace himself as he falls into the door. The metal clangs and echoes through the alley.

Illya slumps against the brick wall, the brick cool beneath his cheek. “Come on,” he mutters. He reaches out and slams his hand against the door, clenching his teeth against a ricochet of pain from his side. His vision greys and sputters, fading around the edges, and he pushes it back with the last dregs of energy he can find. He hits out at the door again.

There’s a sound from the other side, the heavy _clunk_ of a lock turning. The door swings open.

“Who is- _Illya_?”

Illya’s legs give out from underneath him. Strong hands grab him under his arms and catch him before he can hit the ground, hauling him up and over the threshold. “Illya? What the- oh god. Illya.”

Illya slides down the wall, Napoleon catching him again before he crumples to the ground. He looks up, forcing his eyes to stay open. Napoleon is hovering over him, hands outstretched like he doesn’t know where to start. “Hey, Cowboy,” he forces out through bloodied lips.

“What the hell happened to you?”

The wall is cool against his back. He can feel the blood trickling between his fingers where they’re clamped over his side, soaking down into his shirt and trousers. It’s so hard to keep his eyes open.

“Hey, Illya. Illya!”

There’s a sharp sting across his face. Illya wrenches his eyes open to see Napoleon, hand raised from the slap. “Stay awake,” he says sharply. “Do you hear me, Illya? You have to stay awake.”

Illya nods. “Got it,” he mutters. “Sorry, Cowboy.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Napoleon’s hand cups his cheek, pushing his head back up from where it has lolled forwards. “Stay awake, Peril. Are we safe here?”

Illya hums. “Lost them,” he mutters. “Pretty sure wasn’t followed.” He swallows heavily. “Sorry. Didn’t know where else to go. Needed to get somewhere safe.”

Words are becoming harder to form, to get out on his tongue. Napoleon catches him yet again as he lists to the side. “Okay, Peril. You’re going to be okay. Where are you hurt?”

“Side,” Illya mutters. Napoleon peels his hand away, swears, and presses his hand back down.

“Keep pressure on it. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Illya stares at him, the words stuck on his tongue. “Okay,” Napoleon mutters to himself. “Keep pressure on your side. I’m going to check you for anything else. Stay awake.”

Napoleon’s hands are patting him down, running down his arms, down his legs, leaning him forwards to go over his back. “Okay, nothing else,” he says, propping Illya back up against the wall. “Still with me?”

Illya nods. “I- I’m here, Cowboy.”

“I’m going to look at your side now. I’m going to lie you down so I can see properly.” There’s a rustle and then hands gently lowering Illya down to the floor in a controlled slide. Something soft is placed under his head, and Illya can smell Napoleon’s aftershave.

His hand is peeled away from where it’s clasped on his side, and then the sodden fabric of his shirt pushed up. “Jesus,” Napoleon mutters. “Okay, okay. This is going to hurt.”

Something presses down hard on his side. Illya clenches his teeth. He will not scream. He is not going to scream, even as pain lances, white-hot, out from his side and across his body.

There’s a low keening sound and he realises that it’s coming from him.

A hand grips his. Napoleon’s voice slowly filters through. “You’re okay, Peril. You’re giving me the fright of my life, but you’re okay. You’re going to be okay. I’ll- shit, I’ll call an ambulance, we’ll get you to hospital, you’re going to be fine.”

“No,” Illya gasps out. “No hospitals. ‘s not safe.”

“Jesus, Illya,” Napoleon mutters.

“Sorry, I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it’s okay. You’ll be okay.” Napoleon presses more firmly down on his side. “I’ve got this. I know what I’m doing.”

Illya gasps for a breath. It’s getting harder and harder to stay awake. “Are you trying…to reassure…me or yourself?”

Napoleon lets out a strangled laugh. “Bit of both, Peril. Bit of both. Now, this place isn’t secure enough and I don’t have enough kit to keep you from bleeding out. I’m going to hide that car out back that is probably covered in your blood, and then we’ll use mine to get to my apartment. You’ll be safe there, from whatever the hell this is.”

“I can explain,” Illya gets out. “I promise, I can explain. I know-” He breaks off, gritting his teeth against the urge to just give in and let himself sink into blissful unconsciousness. “I know this looks bad.”

“This looks like you’re in real trouble and a lot of pain,” Napoleon says, propping Illya back up until he’s leaning against the wall. “Promise me you’re not part of the mob?”

“Promise,” Illya gets out. “’m not…’m just trying to do better. Make things a bit better.”

“That’ll do for now, then.” Napoleon presses back down on his side. “Stay with me, Peril. Stay awake.”

“Not making any promises,” Illya mutters. God, he’s so tired.

“Hey.” There’s a sharp sting across his cheek. “Illya. Stay awake.”

It’s so hard to keep his eyes open. “Sorry, Cowboy.”

“Goddammit! Peril! Illya, don’t you fucking dare. Stay awake!”

“Illya!”

“Il-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dangle such temptations in front of you, only to snatch them away at the last moment.
> 
> The plot has hit. Also, there's one massive clue in this chapter about Napoleon that I'm sure most of you have picked up on, though the full story and the implications of this won't be fully clear until next chapter. Illya is safe, but oh boy is Napoleon going to have questions. And it's going to go all downhill from there.
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are much loved. This is the last bit of anything approaching fluff that you're going to get in a while, so you better savour it whilst it lasts. The next chapters are where it all goes wrong.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy.

There’s something soft under his head. A faint rustle of cloth nearby. The ticking of a clock on a wall.

Illya keeps his breathing unchanged, even as a deep throb leeches out from his side across his body. He’s in pain but he isn’t restrained, and there’s something soft pulling around his ribs where the dull throb is worst that feels like bandages.

He can hear someone breathing nearby. His breath hitches without his permission, but there’s no sign they’ve noticed him. He keeps his eyes shut.

Memories slowly surface, fighting their way through the haze of pain blanketing him. UNCLE being compromised. Gaby and him splitting up. Five men and the glint of a knife seen too late.

Stealing a car and driving to the only place he could think of that could be safe. Napoleon hauling him up, propping him up against a wall, telling him to stay awake over and over, his voice getting more and more panicked. A hand gripping his as it’s pressed against his side, blood hot and wet and spilling out through both their fingers.

Illya opens his eyes. He stares up at a ceiling, plain white with the light from a lamp in the corner just visible. He can see the cushions of a sofa, the sofa he must be lying on, just out of the corner of his eye.

He lets his head fall over to one side. Napoleon is sat in a chair by his feet. He has a cloth in his hands, and Illya’s gun is in pieces on the coffee table in front of him. As he watches, Napoleon turns the firing pin over in his hands and wipes off a smear of cordite.

“Hi, Cowboy.”

Napoleon starts at Illya’s rasp. “Illya.” He drops the firing pin with a clatter onto the coffee table. It’s a nice wood, Illya notices as he stares at the pieces of his gun stripped and laid out on the table, the half-full clip only a foot or so from him.

A touch on his arm makes him start, pain ricocheting from his side. Napoleon crouches down beside him. “How are you feeling?”

Illya frowns. “Not…as bad as I thought I would,” he gets out. His voice rasps in his throat. His mouth feels like it’s filled with cotton.

Napoleon grips his arm. “You’re going to be okay, Peril. The injury on your side wasn’t as deep as I thought it was from all the blood, and was muscle only. I’ve stitched it up and bandaged it, and managed to get some antibiotics into you.” He presses something into Illya’s hands. “Drink this. You lost a fair bit of blood.”

Illya slowly drains the sports drink as Napoleon watches. “How long-”

“You’ve been out for about four hours,” Napoleon answers, taking the empty bottle back. “I’ve kept an eye on the street below as best as I can, nothing out of the ordinary. Your bloody car is hidden in the garage back at the shop, and mine is in the underground parking here. Nobody saw us coming up, as far as I could tell whilst trying to get you up multiple flights of stairs when you were mostly unconscious. And nobody has yet tried to break the door down, hence I took the time to clean your gun of all the blood.”

It takes Illya about a minute to work through all of that. There’s a thin undercurrent of panic under Napoleon’s voice, even in the Russian that he switched to halfway through talking. There’s still blood crusted underneath his fingernails. Illya knows what he’s thinking.

Napoleon stays crouched next to the sofa, eyes unnervingly trained on him. Illya can’t help but think of the way he had smiled when he had finally worked up the courage to ask him out on a date, how his entire face had lit up.

He looks a world away from that afternoon now.

Illya allows himself one moment to shut his eyes and wish that they could have reached this point differently. That, if Napoleon turns away with disgust as soon as he explains, he could have at least had a brief time with him, could have had what he’s been longing for, what’s he’s only so recently allowed himself to think he might be able to have had.

A moment only. And then he opens his eyes again.

“I am a spy.”

There’s a soft thump as Napoleon rocks back and sits heavily on the floor. His mouth hangs open.

Illya won’t do him the discourtesy of looking away from him, no matter how much he wants to. “I am a field agent for the United Network Command of Law Enforcement. Gaby is my partner.”

Napoleon stares at him. “I did not lie to you,” Illya says. He tries to sit up, but his side seizes, and he can’t move off the sofa. Napoleon just sits there. “Other than what I had to, to keep my cover. My father, special forces, that was all true. I promise you, that is all true.” He stares at Napoleon, trying to rein back the desperation slowly climbing and gripping at his throat. “Cowboy?”

Napoleon lets out a long breath. “Okay, okay. Um…explain. Please.”

Illya takes a breath and fights down the worry clawing at his throat. He owes Napoleon an explanation at least. “I was spetsnaz. Up to that point, everything I said was true. But what I could not tell you…one day, when I came back to base there was a man waiting for me.”

He can still remember exactly how Oleg had looked, that black greatcoat over a sharp-cut suit, stone expression that never yielded throughout their entire conversation. The way he walked through the base like he was so certain of his place above it all, like the entire base filled with some of the most dangerous people Illya knew at the time couldn’t come close to touching him.

For Illya, walking by his side past so many ranking officers who had hated him the moment they had seen his name, it had been intoxicating.

“He told me the same thing they told me when they took me to the spetsnaz. That there was a better way I could serve my country, that there was something my skills were more suited for. That if I really wanted to pay off my father’s debt and put his treason to rest, then I should leave the spetsnaz. And go with him to Lubyanka. To join the Russian Secret Service as a spy.”

Napoleon’s mouth hangs open. “I went with him,” Illya says, twisting his fingers together in his lap. “Of course I did. I wanted to serve my country, and I wanted…I wanted to make things better. Clean up my father’s name. Give my mother something to be proud of. I became their best agent in three years.”

“You’re…SVR.”

Napoleon’s voice is so flat, and Illya’s eyes are suddenly stinging. “I was. I gave _everything_ for them. I gave up all of my life for that place. For so long I thought I was in the right place. That I was doing what was needed for my country. And when I started to wonder if maybe there was a better way…I belonged to them. To try and move against them would have had me taken out back and shot.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from Napoleon. He schools his face as Illya watches. “So what happened next?”

Illya takes a breath and lets the ache in his side anchor him. “I was sent to Berlin. I had to extract a mark. The CIA got involved and everything got…messy. And then my handler told me we were to work with the Americans. That the mark would work with us. There was an international nuclear threat that superseded, for the moment, any rivalries. The CIA agent, myself and the mark went to Rome and stopped a crime family called Vinciguerra from developing nuclear weapons. And in doing so, we walked straight into a two-year long UNCLE operation. The mark betrayed us, and then double-crossed the Vinciguerras as well.” He huffs the barest of laughs, despite everything going on. “She was a sleeper agent for UNCLE. She insults your coffee on regular basis.”

Napoleon reels back. “Gaby.”

Illya nods. “We thought the mission was finished. But there…there was a disk.” He shakes his head. “Just a disk. Fitted in the palm of my hand. And it contained all the information for a country to control any nuclear weapon they wanted to. It was…I was ordered to take it back to Moscow. Of course I was. I knew the order would be coming.”

He can remember it so easily. The coffee table in pieces at his feet. The glass of the tv screen scattered across the carpet. That little blue disk, sitting on the bed in front of him.

“I burned it.” The words are hard to get out, even three years after he unspooled the disk and lit a match. “I burned the disk. And then I went to Gaby and asked her to call her boss. Because I was not going to be allowed back into Russia after what I did.”

He pauses, and shakes his head. “They might have let me back in, actually. But only to shoot me.”

“You…defected.”

“Yes.”

Napoleon looks away from him at the floor. “So, every time you were out of the country…”

“I was out on missions, yes.” Illya studies Napoleon’s face. He can’t make out anything. Napoleon is staring at the floor, fingertip tracing over and over a whorl in the floorboard. “I’m sorry, Cowboy. I’m sorry for dragging you into this and turning up at your back door. I…I wasn’t thinking properly.”

Napoleon snorts softly. “Hard to do that with a couple pints of your blood soaking into the car seat instead of inside you. At least I was there.” He pauses. “God, if I hadn’t been there…”

“No, don’t think like that,” Illya says quickly. Napoleon’s head darts up as he looks at him, eyes wide.

“If I hadn’t been there, you would have fucking bled out in an alley. Or you could have never even made it to me. You could have passed out and crashed that fucking car. Oh my god, you could have- and I wouldn’t have even _known_. I just would have never seen you again, and would anybody have even bothered to _tell_ me-”

“ _Napoleon_.” Illya sits up even as his side screams at him in protest. “Stop it. You cannot think like that. I will be fine. I got to somewhere safe in time. I’ve survived so far.”

Napoleon shoves himself to his feet. “You- you can’t just _say that_. You can’t just do this! You could have- you could be _dead_ right now and I would have had no idea- god, I would have just been serving fucking coffee like nothing was wrong!”

“You cannot think like this,” Illya says sharply. “You _cannot_. That way lies madness.”

“Oh, and you would know?” Napoleon snaps.

“Yes. I do.”

The fight drains out of Napoleon. He shudders, hands hanging limply by his side. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

“There are rules,” Illya says slowly. “At UNCLE. About who we could tell. Immediate family, and significant others. And only if they are serious relationships. If they are someone that we…that I loved. That we can see ourselves spending the rest of our lives with.”

He looks up at Napoleon and ignores the fierce stinging in his eyes. “I wanted to be able to tell you. I…I really, really wanted to get there.”

Napoleon stares at him. He walks slowly over, and drops into the armchair that he’d abandoned earlier. “Just…give me a moment.”

Illya gives him a moment. Gives him what feels like minutes, as Napoleon sits there, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay,” Napoleon says eventually. “Right.” He rubs his eyes. “I…I don’t even know where to start, Peril.” He holds up a hand before Illya can say anything. “I believe you. It’s not something you would make up, and you don’t…” He huffs a bitter laugh. “I was going to say that you don’t lie, but then that’s not quite true, is it?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Illya spits. He’s exhausted, his side is screaming in pain as he stays sat up, and he’s watching everything he thought he might be able to have start to fall to pieces right in front of him. “Yes, I lied. I would do it again. Because that is my _job_.”

Napoleon stares at him. “I had orders,” Illya says, refusing to give in and look away. “I’ve always had orders. I was going to tell you when I was allowed. I’m sorry you had to find out this way, I’m sorry you have been dragged into it like this. But I am not sorry that I did not tell you. You were a soldier, once. You know what it is to follow orders.”

Napoleon looks away first. He snorts. “Yeah, well I was always shit at obeying authority.”

“I am not.” Illya winces as his side spasms and he nearly falls back into the sofa. “I was the SVR’s best in three years. I was UNCLE’s best within a year, with Gaby. My job is my life, and it saves lives if we do it right. And to do that, I need to follow the orders I am given.”

“You burnt that disk,” Napoleon says abruptly. “That’s not following orders. From what I know of Russia, that’s fucking treason.”

Even over three years later, Illya has to hold himself still to stop him from flinching. “You know nothing about what I had to do to break away from Russia,” he says, his voice cold. “What had to happen so that I did the right thing and burnt that disk. Do not talk about it like you have any idea what it is like. And do not pretend that me not telling you yet what my job was is in any way on the same level as stopping a technology that could blow up countries getting into the wrong hands. After dealing with the woman who invented it and her uncle with his very own torture chamber.”

Napoleon is the one who flinches now. “You…I saw some of the- the scars on your torso. I didn’t…”

“The movies get a lot of things wrong,” Illya says quietly. “But not everything.”

“Jesus.” Napoleon falls into the armchair, burying his head in his hands. “Jesus fucking Christ, Peril. I can’t…” He rubs his hands over his face, pressing them into his eyes. “Jesus.”

“I have found that he has little to do with anything,” Illya says coldly. “Or God. Call out for them all you want, they don’t answer.”

Napoleon slowly raises his head from his hands. “How, in any way, do you think that helps?” he asks incredulously. “Seriously. You can’t just _say_ something like that.” He rubs at his eyes again. “Jesus- no, actually, fuck you. You can’t say something like that and expect me to just have a rational response. Stop it.”

“Stop pretending like the fact that you are upset that I didn’t tell you about my job is in any way comparable to the importance of doing my job properly.” Illya grimaces as he pushes himself up against the sofa. “I need to go.” Gaby is out there somewhere, and he needs to find her. They need to find Waverly, make sure that he is safe and still able to coordinate UNCLE’s response. They need to find the people putting their agents in danger and stop them before anyone else gets hurt.

Napoleon half-rises from the armchair. “You should be careful, you’ve lost some blood and-”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” Illya snaps. He heaves himself to his feet.

It’s a mistake. The world greys out around him, his heartbeat thundering a warning in his ears for a few brief moments before everything tips. There’s a startled shout. Arms close around him, catching him, hands digging into his shoulders as any strength just disappears from his body. His side screams in protest, and everything goes dark.

0-o-0-o-0

He comes round to the sound of footsteps, slowly pacing up and down nearby. Napoleon enters his field of view briefly and then walks back out of it. His head is down, staring at the carpet. He’s turning a small trinket from the coffee table over and over in his hands.

“At the risk of repeating myself,” Illya gets out, his voice rasping in his throat, “hey, Cowboy.”

Napoleon starts. He fumbles the trinket in his hands, nearly dropping it before grabbing it at the last moment. “Illya.” He stands there for a moment, just visible in the corner of Illya’s eye, and then in a sudden flurry drops to his knees beside the sofa. “Oh, thank god,’ he says in a rush, hand hovering over Illya’s cheek for a moment before dropping it down to under his jaw, two fingers pressing in to check his pulse. “I was debating whether or not to just fuck it and call an ambulance.”

“How long-”

“Only about half an hour, this time,” Napoleon says. His fingers draw back from Illya’s pulse point but doesn’t quite leave. His hand rests on the juncture of Illya’s neck and shoulder, fingers curling slightly over his collarbone. “I’m sorry, Peril.”

“What for?” Illya’s tongue is sluggish in his mouth, the words slurring a little even in Russian. He tries to sit up, only for his side to protest and keep him flat out on the sofa.

“Careful,” Napoleon chides, his thumb sweeping across the skin over Illya’s collarbone. “Or you’ll pass out again. And I’m sorry for…not thinking rationally about it. About your job. And how you didn’t tell me.”

Illya shifts again, managing to get himself up on his elbows and lever himself up against the arm of the sofa. “I did not intend to drag you in like this,” he says, a hiss through his teeth as he settles against the sofa arm. “Or turn up bloody at your doorstep. For that, I am sorry.”

“Bloody is an understatement, but I’ll allow it.” Napoleon squeezes his arm, pulling the blanket that Illya only now realises is draped over him a little further up. “I was angry. And upset. Still am a bit, to be honest. But I also understand that part of your job is keeping what you do a secret, and that you’re not the type of person to break a promise. And that you felt that couldn’t tell me yet.” He squeezes Illya’s arm again, and a soft smile just curls the corners of his lips. “Now. I’m going to get you another drink and something to eat so you don’t pass out again when you try to stand up. And then we’ll deal with whatever’s next.”

Illya feels slightly more human after drinking another bottle of the too-sweet sports drink and eating some leftover brownies from the shop. “Thank you, Cowboy,” he says, crumpling the bottle in his hand. “For all this.”

“Well, what else are you going to do when your friend turns up at your back door with blood all over their side and passes out before they can say anything other than tell you to not call an ambulance and then reassure you that they’re not part of the mob?” Napoleon huffs a laugh. “You certainly keep my life interesting.”

Illya slowly sits up, wincing at the pain in his side. His gun is still in pieces across the coffee table and he reaches for them, starting to slowly put it back together. “I figured you would want to do it yourself,” Napoleon says, settling in the nearby armchair. “I know I used to be particular about my weapons.”

Illya hesitates, realising that he’s running his fingers over the firing pin, checking for cordite without even realising. “It is not that I don’t trust you,” he says, “but I just…”

“No, I know.” Napoleon huffs a laugh. “Don’t worry, I won’t take offence.”

The brief lightness slowly dissipates and sinks away as he reassembles his pistol, every component slotted together pushing down on him a little further. These stolen moments slip away from him as the pistol takes shape once again under his hands, running down with every piece picked up from the table. He checks the clip isn’t in before cocking the weapon and pulling the trigger. The pistol clicks under his hands and the weight solidifies across his shoulders. “I’m going to have to go soon,” he says. “I need to find Gaby. I need to…I need to stop this before any of my people get hurt.”

“I guessed as much,” Napoleon says, lips twisting. He gets to his feet. “Drink something else before you go. I don’t want Gaby screaming at me for letting you walk out of here just to collapse somewhere on the streets.”

There’s a tightness to his voice, a tension rising across his shoulders that Illya can read as he crosses the sofa and disappears out of sight towards the kitchen. Illya can feel it too. He tries to shake it off, tries to remind himself that this is nothing out of the ordinary, that he has faced much worse odds than this with bullet holes still in him and managed to walk out the other side, but it doesn’t want to leave him alone.

He can’t stay. He knows that he can’t stay. There’s no indecision tearing at him, nothing pulling him in two directions until he doesn’t know how to move. Gaby is out there, Waverly is out there, his people are out there depending on him to do his job. But there’s still a brief moment, a bitter twinge as weight digs in across his shoulders and he straightens his spine, just like he always has.

He knows what his duty is. It is not to stay here.

“Gaby will be okay?” Napoleon asks as he comes back and hands Illya another sports drink.

“Gaby is more capable than anyone I have ever met,” Illya says honestly. “Even when we first met, the mess with the Vinciguerra family, she was only a sleeper agent and she still managed to run rings around me. Accidentally got me captured and tortured by the head of the family, but it worked out fine in the end.”

Napoleon flinches at that slightly. If Illya hadn’t been looking at him, he probably wouldn’t have seen it. “Yes, well, let’s not try a repeat of that one,” he says, a forced laugh to his voice.

“She’s dead,” Illya can’t help but point out. “We blew up her boat with her on it.”

Napoleon turns away with a shake of his head. “Yes, well, you never know if there’s another Victoria Vinciguerra out there waiting for you. Be careful, won’t you?”

Illya can feel the line that his heart carves straight through him, a clean line gutting him on its way down to sink into the floor. He sets the bottle down carefully, the plastic crinkling as a fine tremor runs through his hands.

Please, no. Please don’t let him have been this stupid.

“I’ll be fine,” he says carefully. Napoleon is still turned away from him, staring at the window. Illya reaches forwards and slides the pistol and magazine off the table. The click of the magazine as it is inserted into the pistol echoes through the room, reverberating deep into his bones.

Please don’t let him have been this goddamn stupid.

His side pulses as he gets to his feet, but it doesn’t matter. Napoleon is still staring at the window, rocking back on his heels slightly, his hands in his pockets. Like nothing has changed, like there’s nothing different, like Illya’s chest isn’t suddenly hollow and empty and spreading until the breath just disappears from his lungs.

“I never told you Victoria’s name.”

Napoleon starts. It’s so realistic. Even the way he turns to face Illya, the expression of puzzlement on his face, it’s all so realistic. “Sorry, what?”

Illya tightens his grip on the pistol. “I never said her name was Victoria. I only ever said the Vinciguerra name.”

Napoleon shrugs again. “You must have at some point. You were talking a little in your sleep, maybe you said it then and I just jumped to conclusions.”

Illya could believe that. He could so easily believe that. Take whatever Napoleon says and run with it, paper it over his own thoughts over and over again until it’s all he remembers. He could do it. He’s done it before. He knows he’s done it before.

He could just pretend to believe it.

Napoleon’s expression of puzzlement is slowly pulled back in the longer Illya stands there silent. There’s something behind it, something watching and calculating. And Illya wonders how he never fucking noticed it before.

“It’s funny,” Illya says slowly. “If you had slipped up even a few months ago, if you had said her name and then tried to explain it away, I would have made myself believe you.” A short bark of cold laughter slips past his lips. “I can’t do that anymore. Not after all this time. Now.” His grip tightens on his pistol. “How the fuck do you know who she is?”

Napoleon turns to his face him. His face is so carefully blank.

“I don’t think you’re thinking quite straight,” he says slowly, staring Illya down easily from the other side of the room. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not true. You’ve lost blood, you’re just confused.”

Illya’s hand trembles around the pistol’s grip. The metal is warm under his hands from where he’s been gripping it so tightly. “Don’t try and make me believe I am wrong. I won’t let it work. Did you work for her? I know we killed most of the family, but not everyone. Were you sent by them for revenge? Or is it someone else? CIA?”

A jagged laugh bursts from Napoleon’s lips. “God, no, _absolutely_ not. Never in a million years.” He rocks back on his heels. “I’m just a coffee shop owner. Can’t you believe that, Peril?”

“Don’t,” Illya gets out between gritted teeth. “Don’t try and pretend like you haven’t been lying to me about something all this time. _How do you_ _know her name_?”

“Please, Illya,” Napoleon says. He steps forwards just a little, hands coming out of his pocket to reach towards Illya before he seems to think better of it. “Please, just leave this alone. I promise you, I just own a coffee shop. I just make coffee.” He inches forwards another few steps. “Come on, Peril, you’ve known me for nearly a year now. I’m just your friend.”

Illya steps back. He glances around him. The apartment is large, larger than he’d realised just lying on the sofa. And expensive. It’s probably worth more than Illya thinks he’ll ever be able to make.

His eyes skip over the side table by the armchair with what looks like an actual crystal decanter half-filled with whiskey or scotch, the trinkets across the mantelpiece below the painting there-

The painting.

Charing Cross bridge under morning fog. So much brighter than a print, hanging in an American agent’s office as he laughs about his mark getting away. A small photograph in a brief search through the records at UNCLE before something more important comes up.

A ragged laugh slips through his lips. “God, I’m such an idiot.”

“Peril?”

Illya turns back to Napoleon, standing there like nothing has changed, like everything hasn’t just been turned upside down. “How do you know her name?” he asks again. “Prado.”

Napoleon rocks back on his heels. “Prado?” he asks.

He’s just a second too late. Illya knows where to look now. He can see the cracks in the mask.

“That painting is a Monet. Charing Cross Bridge.” Illya steps forwards slowly, the pistol still pointing down at the floor by his side. “He painted a series of them, but that one there? That one was stolen and has never been found. Stolen, by a thief who took the name Prado. He was well-known. Pulled off many heists around the world, up until he disappeared. Less than a year before you opened up your shop.”

Napoleon staggers back. “I- Illya…” He shakes his head, holds his hands up like he is warding something off. “You must know-”

“What?” Illya asks, only just pulling his voice back from a snarl. “That you have been lying to me ever since we met?”

Napoleon shakes his head again. “No, no, I- Illya, please.” He rubs his hands across his face and his shoulders heave. “You know what? Fuck it. I haven’t lied to you up until now, I _haven’t_. I’m not going to start now.”

He straightens up, his expression smoothing out. “You’re right. I was Prado.”

Illya’s breath scrapes in his throat.

He's ten years old, watching his father being led away in handcuffs, and his fingernails are cutting little crescents into the palms of his hands that will sting when his mother carefully wipes them clean later. And he's wishing, he is wishing so hard that he feels sick from it, that this isn't happening. That it's all a bad dream he can wake up from any moment now.

Napoleon stands across from him, his face perfectly blank, and Illya tastes bile in the back of his throat.

He doesn’t want to believe this.

It has never mattered what he wants.

“ _You_ ,” he hisses, hand curling into a fist at his side. “You- this was all some sort of sick game to you? Pretend to be an innocent, pretend like you just serve fucking _coffee_.” A broken laugh claws its way up his throat, digging into his throat until fresh blood spills out and coats his tongue. “I am such an idiot. I can’t believe-”

“I _was_ Prado,” Napoleon says, his voice suddenly desperate. “Please, Illya, just hear me out. I was Prado. I stole that painting, and a lot of others. I know, I _know_. But please, Illya. Just listen to me. Just for a moment.”

Illya shakes his head. He wants to turn away, he wants to be anywhere but here. But his feet are rooted to the floor. He can’t do anything as Napoleon reaches out and puts a hand on his arm, his expression so pleading, so desperate. So perfectly crafted.

How could he have not seen this before.

“I should have seen this,” he gets out, his voice thick around the taste of bile and blood that’s been there for as long as he can remember. “God, I should have- I was so _distracted_.” His breath hitches in his throat. “Was that part of your plan as well? Play along, keep me distracted, all for a bit of fun? Screw over the helpless civilian?” His eyes burn and he forces himself to keep staring Napoleon down. “Turns out I’m not so helpless, I guess. Was it all…was _I_ just a game to you?”

“No, _no_ , god Illya, no you weren’t,” Napoleon says. He’s gripping his arm now, his fingers digging in to Illya’s skin. “I meant it. I meant all of this. Everything I’ve done ever since we first met and you insulted my coffee. I was Prado, yes, but I _was_. Past tense. I…I retired.”

Illya laughs. “Of course,” he spits. “Convenient story.”

“Please, Illya, just let me explain. Just give me a moment.” Napoleon steps even closer, eyes searching Illya’s face. “Please. I retired nearly two years ago. I couldn’t do it anymore, the lying, the stealing, the cheating rich fucks out of their money only to watch it hit the innocents around them. I couldn’t stand what the other people around me were doing, the things they would do for the high that we were all chasing. I left. I left it all behind. I opened a fucking coffee shop and I _meant it_ , Illya, I really meant it. I’m retired. I promise you, I’m retired.”

“Victoria?”

Napoleon winces. “I knew the name. I might have met her at one point, I’m not sure. But I _never_ worked with her. That woman was as dangerous as they could come. I knew of her, and her family. What her uncle liked to do. I didn’t like the sound of any of it, so I stayed well away.” He shakes his head. “I did my own thing, and she did her own thing, and I guess it’s obvious now who had the right idea of it.” He chances a quiet laugh. “I’m not the one you blew up.”

Illya shakes his head. “You- how can I possibly believe you?”

“I never lied to you about anything else,” Napoleon says. He reaches up slowly, one hand just brushing against Illya’s jaw. “Everything else- the military, the stories about travelling through Europe, the fucking peach pie, that was all true. Please, Illya, you have to believe me. I’m retired, I promise you. I promise you.”

He gently cups Illya’s jaw, eyes wide as he searches Illya face. “What will it take for you to believe me?”

Illya wrenches himself out of Napoleon’s grip. He staggers back, anchors himself around the grip of the pistol hard in his hand and pulls his shoulders back. “I would say that you don’t lie,” he echoes, his voice so cold on his lips that it hurts. “But then that’s not quite true, is it?”

Napoleon flinches. Illya holds himself still, wraps steel and the cold of a Russian winter around himself until he can barely see Napoleon reaching out right in front of him.

He knows how to cut a part of himself away. He’s done it before.

“I have to go,” he hears himself say.

Feet that are not his own walk to the door. A hand that is perfectly steady reaches out for the handle.

“ _Peril_.”

The word reverberates through him. Illya glances back over his shoulder before he can stop himself.

Napoleon stands in the middle of his apartment, looking wrecked.

“I have to go and do my job,” Illya says. “Prado.”

The door swings shut on the perfect way that Napoleon’s expression crumbles and falls apart. Illya turns and leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm...sorry?
> 
> Not really, I had these scenes planned for soooo long and I am so excited to finally get here. Well done to the people who correctly predicted this for Napoleon's backstory, I think only a couple people got close! A lot assumed he was CIA, which is a fair assumption to make, but not quite right. This is also the reason why Napoleon is somewhat more well-adjusted in this fic than he is in canon, or other fics of mine. The timeline has been jigged around a little, Napoleon is a few years younger than Illya here and was an art thief for a bit longer than in canon. It's up to you (at this moment) whether you believe everything that Napoleon said this chapter or not.
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are much loved, and I would love to hear how you think Napoleon and Illya are going to get out of this one.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am delighted at the response I got to last chapter, I was waiting for sooo damn long to get there and had been building up to the Big Reveal for a while, so I'm really glad the angst hit like I intended it to!

The roar of the rotor blades over their heads is deafening, even with the ear defenders he’d had thrust into his hands as he’d been pulled into the helicopter. Gloved hands rip the gauze away from his side. “Nice stitches,” the medic mutters, prodding along the gash. “I’m assuming you’re about to run into a gunfight in the next few hours and I can’t dose you up with a load of morphine?”

“You’re probably right,” Gaby says from where she’s sat across from Illya, slumped back in the seat of the chopper. There’s still a smear of blood across her cheek, though she’s assured Illya that it isn’t hers. “Do what you can without doing something that would fuck us over in the middle of a firefight.”

“He has a hole in his side held together by thread, but sure,” the medic says. “If _someone_ can fly this chopper like they’re sober.”

“I’d like to see you give it a go,” the pilot shouts back from the cockpit.

Illya tunes out the banter between the various ex-agents in the helicopter as the medic patches him up as best they can. He’s not quite sure where Gaby has scrounged these people up from, a few ex-SAS and MI6 agents that met them out on a disused airfield with a fully supplied helicopter waiting to take them to wherever Waverly is waiting, but they seem to be disinclined to betray them or throw them out of the helicopter. Gaby has always had a knack of charming most people they meet out on missions, and the result is that even when shit hits the fan there are people like this group who turn up to help.

He can feel Gaby staring at him, but he’s had years of practice at ignoring her. He guesses he can avoid it for another half-hour or so.

His side throbs, but he wraps himself tighter in the cold of a Russian winter and reminds himself that it means nothing. That there is nothing worth compromising himself over. There’s a job to do.

The taste of bile rises at the back of his throat that he swallows away. He should never have lowered his guard like that. Never should have even let himself get close to becoming compromised.

If Oleg could see him now. This is not what he was made to be.

The thought of Oleg comes unbidden, and he has to swallow the taste of bile back down again. It always comes back to there. He’s spent years trying to get away from that place, but it’s a closed loop system. Get far enough away and he just comes right back around to where he was before.

The medic sticks new gauze to his side and then moves off to the other side of the chopper to be immediately replaced with Gaby. “I don’t like that look on your face,” she says.

Illya can’t find it within himself to bother to reply. He turns his head and stares out at the countryside passing below them in blurs of green and brown.

“Illya.” There’s a hand on his jaw, turning his face until he can see Gaby staring at him with those big brown eyes he can’t ever seem to find it in himself to say no to. She reaches up and clicks a button on the side of his ear defenders, pulling the little microphone down to hover above his mouth. “Just us on this channel. Now, you better tell me what the hell is going on.”

His side throbs, and the cold he’s pulled around him is slowly melting away with every memory of his smile, the way he laughed, the life he had talked about that had all been a lie.

He’s so familiar with the shame that roils under his skin. Hot and heavy and pinning him down to the floor with a well-known weight. His side throbs, he’s exhausted, and he’s so utterly sick of realising the people he trusted have been lying to him.

“I’m…I was such an _idiot_ ,” he gets out. His hands tremble, and he presses them into his thighs until it hurts. “I shouldn’t have- I should never have trusted him.”

He tells her everything.

Gaby is silent for a long, long moment once the words have dried up and Illya can’t find anything else to wrench forwards to show off just how much of a fool he is, how stupid he’s been. How easy it was for him to be tricked.

“Right,” she says eventually. “Okay.” She twists the microphone away from her face and abruptly turns away from Illya towards the cockpit. “Hey. Top Gun?”

“What’s up?” the pilot shouts back.

“Can we turn around and make a quick pit stop? I just need to go quickly murder someone.”

“Gaby,” Illya snaps.

“He deserves it,” she snaps back. “God, he deserves it. He- how _dare_ he? How dare he treat you like that? How dare he hide away serving fucking _coffee_! God, I’m going to get my hands on him and make him realise exactly how fucked he is.”

“Gaby-”

“Don’t sit there and tell me that he hasn’t just broken your damn heart, Illya,” Gaby snaps. She leans forwards towards the cockpit. “Top Gun, turn this fucking chopper around. I’ll be an extra hour, tops.”

“Do not turn this helicopter around,” Illya snarls over the roar of the rotor blades. “Leave it, Gaby. Just leave it. He won’t even be there anymore. Why would he stay around, now his… _cover_ is blown? He’ll be gone by the time we get back. Someone like him won’t have forgotten how to disappear.”

“Yeah, well the two of us are the best field agents UNCLE has to offer, and UNCLE is the best intelligence agency out there. We can find him.” Gaby thumps him in the arm, enough that Illya winces. “We’ll find him. I’ll make him pay for this. Once we’ve sorted this mess out, I will help you hunt him down and fucking _gift-wrap_ him for Interpol.”

“I can’t believe I fell for it,” Illya mutters. He presses his hands into his thighs again until he can feel the ache. “I…I actually fell for it.”

Gaby winces. “Darling. That’s not your fault.”

“Isn’t it?” Illya can’t help the bitterness that seeps into his voice. “I let myself let my guard down. I let myself get drawn in, play at being a civilian, at being some sort of _normal_. And I got played.”

“Oh, no,” Gaby says sharply. “Hell no. I am not letting this make you into what you were like post-Moscow. Those months after Italy were hell for both of us, and you know it. There is no way I am letting you use this as an excuse to clam right back up again. And when I find him, I am going to string him up by his balls until he realises the mistake he made in picking you to play with like a fucking toy.”

“Gaby,” Illya mutters. “Just leave it. We won’t ever see him again.”

“No, no.” Gaby’s lips are a thin line as she presses them together for a long moment before she says anything. “I have watched you struggle for _years_ ,” she says eventually, “literal years, with trying to open up to people. And the past year or so, I’ve been so proud of you, watching you become friends with him, open up to him about things it took most of a bottle of vodka to tell me. And to find out that he’s been stringing you along this entire time?” He can hear her breath out slowly through her nose, her knuckles white as her fists clench. “Forgive me if I want to find him and make him _pay_ for hurting you like that.”

“Nothing to forgive, chop shop girl,” Illya says quietly. “I’m just…” He drops his head into his hands, wincing at the pull on the stitches in his side. “I asked him out to dinner before all of this. He- he said that he would have asked me, once he worked up the courage. We were going to go out on a date.”

Gaby is silent for another long moment. When Illya looks up she’s staring out the window at the countryside below them. A muscle is jumping in her jaw.

“I am going to kill him,” she says slowly, the words so carefully enunciated like she’s having to focus on every syllable to get them right. “I am going to find him. Once we are out of this mess, I am going to find him and I am going to kill him for that.”

“Gaby…”

“Fine, serious maiming, then,” Gaby offers. “But he’s not getting away with this.”

“Just leave it,” Illya mutters. “We have job to do.”

“Yeah, finding the bastard and dragging him in front of a tribunal,” Gaby says. She sighs, visibly trying to calm herself down. “Look. I’m really, _really_ pissed off with him right now, and I am absolutely raring to turn this chopper around, find him and make him realise just how badly he’s fucked up. But I will do whatever you want to do about this. I am firmly in your corner.” Her expression softens, and she takes his hand. “You really liked him, and he betrayed you. He deserves retribution.”

“Gaby-”

“He broke your heart, darling.”

“You don’t need to remind me,” Illya snarls. He runs a hand over his face, the anger sinking back down to where it had risen from and quietening for the moment. “I just…I so nearly had it. I came so close to believing that I _could_ have it.”

“Oh, darling.” Gaby leans into his side, careful of the gauze still visible where his shirt is still pulled up. “I’m so sorry.”

Illya gives into the urge to curl an arm around her. “I am so _sick_ of being lied to.”

“I know, darling.” Gaby curls into his side a little. “This is just the icing on the cake. After all the shit you’ve already been through.” She stifles a yawn in his shoulder. “I’m sorry. It’s so unfair. Just let me know and I’ll string him up for you to torture.”

“I’m not torturing him,” Illya mutters.

He doesn’t know what he wants to do.

0-o-0-o-0

The helicopter finally touches down an hour later on a manicured lawn, a large manor house up on the rise above them. The medic offers Illya a hand as they jump down, which Illya resolutely ignores. “Don’t bust those stitches,” they warn as he jumps down from the helicopter, suppressing the inevitable wince as the movement pulls on his side.

“I’ve had worse,” Illya mutters.

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” the medic says under their breath. They reach out, briefly grasping Illya’s arm as Gaby hops out behind him and starts walking up towards the house and the familiar silhouette of Waverly waiting at the entrance. “I heard a little of what you and Teller were talking about, by the way. Even with this impromptu trip, all of us still owe her a hell of a lot. So, if you would like someone found and gift-wrapped for you when you finish this mess and have some time to deal out retribution for whatever he did, say the word. Give us a name. We’ll have him ready and waiting for you when you get back.”

Illya pauses. Gaby is already halfway to the house, and she glances back over his shoulder at him. “No,” he says eventually. “It is okay. I doubt you would be able to find him anyway. He will be long gone by now.”

“Well, if you ever need a chopper, you let us know.” The medic claps him on the shoulder. “Have fun.”

Illya catches up with Gaby, halfway up the hill. “You have some weird friends.”

“Yeah, well I don’t see any of yours turning up to help us out,” Gaby mutters. She winces immediately. “Sorry. It’s been a really long day and the dried blood under this jumpsuit is really fucking itchy.”

Waverly walks out to meet them, and there’s an actual frown on his face as he looks the two of them up and down. “Well, it is damn good to see the both of you,” he says eventually. “Teller, I trust that is not your own blood? Kuryakin, are you hurt?”

“He has some stitches in his side,” Gaby says before Illya can even shake his head. “And no, Sir, this isn’t my blood. Both of us had some…difficulties with the various mercenaries sent after us.”

Waverly’s frown doesn’t leave his face. “Come inside,” he says, turning back towards the house. “A few others have made it here already, and most of the field agents have called in. Most of them.”

“The ones who came after me were Italian,” Gaby says as they follow Waverly into the house, the old stone floor cold under their feet as they cross the foyer. “Yours, Illya?”

“Don’t know,” Illya replies as he scans the foyer of the house. Three rooms lead off from where they stand, plus a wide staircase rising up to the first floor. An old hunting rifle hangs above a door; Illya automatically catalogues it, though it looks like it hasn’t seen use in decades. “Was too busy trying to kill them before they killed me.”

Gaby hums. “Well, the one that was still alive by the time I’d finished with all of them had some trouble speaking, but mentioned the name Caraceni.”

Waverly’s frown deepened. “Yes, that is consistent with what other reports are saying, as they filter in. The Caraceni family. I don’t believe you have ever met with them before, but I believe that they have had fingers in many of the pies we have disrupted in the past few years. We have gone up against them before, back before either of you were agents and our agency was far less…established than it is now. It was a stalemate, ultimately. We could never find enough hard evidence to be able to turn any of the family over to Interpol.”

“So now they’re out for some sort of revenge?” Gaby asks. “Fantastic.”

“Quite. And they seemed to have amassed quite a following to do so, not to mention a significant amount of intelligence on a number of our agents. It’s a little embarrassing how well they managed to get the drop on us.”

_Catastrophic_ would be a more appropriate term, but Illya doesn’t say anything. Unconsciousness isn’t the same as sleeping, and it’s becoming more and more of a struggle to keep alert. His side is throbbing fiercely with every step as Waverly leads them into what must have once been a living room, but has been converted into a haphazard control room with whatever is available. Expensive sofas and side tables have been shoved to one side, a rolled up rug balanced precariously on top of a drinks cabinet that together look worth more than Illya’s entire apartment. A white sheet half-covers a large painting taken down from one wall to make room for a projector, the dust cloth slipped enough for Illya to make out some of the painting beneath.

He automatically starts running through lists of artists that he’s learnt, trying to match composition to the little he knows, and then has to make himself turn away before he starts to really hate himself.

There are about fifteen people in the room already, mostly analysts that Illya recognises but has never spent much time talking to. “Eleven field agents have made it in so far, not including the two of you,” Waverly says as he leads them into the room. “Most of them are upstairs. I’ve sent them to get some rest, which is exactly where the two of you will be going once I’ve briefed you on what he know.”

“Sir,” Gaby says immediately. “There’s too much- we’re fine. We need to get to work before anyone else gets hurt.”

“Kuryakin?” Waverly asks mildly, his hands in his pocket as he watches the analysts work around the room at whatever makeshift stations they’ve been able to put together. “Your thoughts?”

Illya’s side is almost screaming at him, he’s sure that the new gauze is already stained with blood from the stickiness he can feel across his skin, and there’s an exhaustion trying to grapple him and drag him straight down to the floor. It’s getting harder and harder not to see the expression on Napoleon’s face as he slams the door shut on him on the back of his eyelids every time he blinks.

“Whatever you need us to do, Sir,” he says.

Waverly stares at him for a long moment. “Very well, then,” he says eventually. “Let’s get to work.”

0-o-0-o-0

It’s been dark outside for hours. Illya lost track of the time around the point that he first found Gaby and they made it onto the chopper, and he has no idea how late it is now. The words on the laptop in front of him are starting to blur, the compound maps he’s been studying swimming on the screen. There’s not enough information. What they have is trickling in sporadically as agents manage to call in from out in the field.

Some agents are still dark. Illya tries not to obsess over where they were, what last reports there are of their movements. It’s not going to be his job to go out and find them, when Waverly finally decides they have enough done to assign missions and send agents out from this fragile bubble of safety they’ve established, here in this old house that smells of dust and the mud that people keep tracking in.

He knows already that he and Gaby will be sent straight to the heart of the problem. Waverly hasn’t said anything yet, but he doesn’t need to. It will be him and Gaby who are sent after the head of the Caraceni family.

Gaby appears, a file in her hands. Apparently someone has gotten a printer up and running, because the pages are still warm when she hands them to him. “There’s some leftover stew still warming on the stove, if you haven’t eaten yet. You might have to fight the others for the rest of the bread.”

“I’m fine,” Illya mutters. “Has Waverly-”

“Not yet.” Gaby perches on the arm of the sofa. “But he’ll send us. We’ll have to work our way down through some of their compounds before reaching the main estate, take out their resources first. Waverly wants to put a net around them, get them panicked as we close in. They sent a lot of men after both of us, which means they know what we can do.”

Normally at this point Gaby would grin, make some sharp comment about how the Caraceni’s have no idea what’s coming. Maybe punch him in the arm, just enough for it to hurt. Now, she just sits there, staring across the room.

“Gaby-”

“You should get some sleep,” she says, not looking away from the projection of what looks like a money trail up on the wall. It’s only a matter of time before the analysts start actually writing on the walls, unless Waverly can magically produce a whiteboard from somewhere. “There’s probably a free bed upstairs, or at least a sofa.”

“I’m fine,” Illya says automatically.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d say.” Gaby pushes herself to her feet with a wince. “Do whatever. I’m going to go eat something and then check in with some contacts.”

“More of your friends?” Illya asks. “Hope they can fly helicopters better than last ones.”

Gaby just glares at him. “I don’t see you calling up any of your friends to help us. Get Markos on the phone and get some help from him, why don’t you?”

“Oh, because that would end so well,” Illya snaps. “I am so sorry that the bridges I had to burn to get here are now so inconvenient to you.”

“Jesus,” Gaby mutters. She turns and stalks out of the room. Illya hauls himself to his feet. His side protests fiercely, but he ignores it as he follows Gaby out into the foyer.

“What is your problem?” he asks.

“Oh, you mean besides all the shit that has happened in the past…what, eighteen hours? Less?” Gaby turns away from him, lips pressed together in a thin line. “Leave it, Illya. Go get some sleep. You look like absolute crap right now.”

“You still have dried blood on your face.”

Gaby wipes at her cheek with her sleeve. “Go to sleep, Illya, before you fall over. Stop making shit decisions about your own health.”

“I don’t have the monopoly on shit decisions,” Illya snaps.

“Yeah, well I’m not the one who fell in love with an art thief because he made good coffee.”

“I-I was not in _love-_ ”

“Oh, well then it’s all fine,” Gaby snaps. “Doesn’t matter in the slightest.”

Illya stops and stares at her. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

Gaby spins on her heel towards him. “Have you ever considered that he was my friend too?” she asks, crowding up to him until Illya takes an uncertain step back. “That I’m not just pissed off on your behalf, but pissed off because I didn’t see _any_ of this coming either? You’re not the only person who has trouble making friends outside of the hellish landscape we live in!”

“Gaby…”

“I saw none of this coming!” Gaby spins around away from Illya, fists clenched. For a brief moment, Illya thinks she’s about to throw a punch. “God, Illya! Just how _stupid_ do you think I feel right now?”

Illya flounders, and Gaby shakes her head. “Just…just leave it. I’m going to go do whatever needs doing.”

Illya twists, reaching for her as she brushes past him. Something in his side pops. He can feel the blood slowly start to seep out, hot and wet. In the few moments that he freezes, a fresh wave of pain washing under his skin, Gaby disappears into another room.

“Shit,” Illya mutters. He presses a hand to his side and heads for the stairs. There must be a bathroom with a decent first aid kit somewhere in this damn house.

0-o-0-o-0

The bathroom is completely unsuited for impromptu field medicine, but it’s the best that Illya can find in the house. He balances his phone on the side of the sink, torch on, and twists to look at the row of neat stitches running across his side in the mirror. The third and fourth ones are missing, a tattered piece of thread from one end still hanging in his skin. Blood is slowly seeping out from the split skin, half-congealed and sticky.

The alcohol wipes sting as Illya swipes them across the injury, but they do the job and he gets most of the blood off before his hands start to tremble from the throbbing slowly working its way out from his side. He had looked for vodka to steady his hands, but someone has already cleared out the drinks cabinet.

He washes his hands again and then opens up the sterile packet of needle and thread. Threading a needle with hands that won’t stop trembling, in a bathroom where the one light in the ceiling is dim enough to almost be pointless, is nearly impossible.

Illya just manages to get the thread through the eye and is wiping away any more spilt blood from the wound when there’s a knock at the door. It swings open, and Illya meets Waverly’s gaze in the mirror.

“Sir,” he says abruptly. “I-” He goes to put the needle down, only to realise he doesn’t have any sterile surfaces and it would mean needing to go through the whole process of threading a needle again. “Sorry. It is only two popped stitches. I…I didn’t want to bother anyone.”

Waverly hums. He steps inside the bathroom and nudges the door shut behind him. “Teller has gone to get some rest,” he just says as he brushes past Illya and starts washing his hands. “Once we’re done here then I’m sending you along as well. You need some sleep, and you’re obviously not going to go until I tell you.”

“Sir,” Illya says. He still has the needle in his hand, the metal point wobbling with every tremor. He just stands there and watches as Waverly dries off, rolls up his sleeves and rubs hand sanitizer all over his hands. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Waverly says, taking the needle from Illya’s hand. “I know how committed you are to your job, Kuryakin. I depend on it every day. And if that means that I must sometimes remind you to take a break during a stressful time, then I will add that to my list of priorities.” He studies Illya’s side. “Now, sit down and lean on the sink. I’ll try to be quick.”

In the yellow light of the bathroom, Waverly looks much less like the boss that Illya has known for the past three years. “I do still remember how to do this,” he says, glancing up to meet Illya’s gaze in the mirror with a faint smile. “You can watch if it makes you feel more at ease, but you don’t have to if you just want to make sure that I know what I’m doing.”

“Sorry,” Illya murmurs, dropping his gaze.

“Illya.” Waverly hardly ever uses Illya’s first name, and it’s enough to make him sit up in surprise. Waverly gently pushes him back down, one hand between his shoulder blades, and turns his attention to Illya’s side. “I am well aware of how you tend to…regress, I suppose, to the mindset that Moscow encouraged under times of immense stress,” he says as his fingers gently move along the edges of the wound. “I am tired, and I won’t step around this as much as I normally would. I’ve been pleased to see you moving away from that, especially in the last year.”

Illya can’t help but snort at that. “Do you disagree?” Waverly asks mildly. “Small pinch.”

Illya winces, his breath hissing between his teeth. “No,” he gets out, trying to ignore the sickening feeling of the tugging on his side. “I…it is complicated.”

“Ah, as all things are,” Waverly says. He’s silent for a few moments, seemingly concentrating on the stitches. “I won’t press about whatever it is you and Teller were arguing about,” he says eventually, “though you should think to maybe pick a more secluded place than the foyer if you wish to have a second round. It is, quite frankly, none of my business, and past experience tells me that this won’t affect your work in any way.”

Illya has to concentrate on breathing for a few seconds as the needle slips through his skin and the edges of skin are pulled tight. “We’ll be fine, Sir,” he gets out. “You do not need to worry about us.”

Waverly hums. “Well, not worrying is somewhat impossible,” he says mildly. “That is not meant as a slight against you, of course. You are, quite frankly, one of the most capable agents I’ve had the pleasure of knowing, and you and Teller together are frighteningly effective, if a little unorthodox at times. But I have a duty of care. I ask you to go into dangerous situations, constantly require you to put yourselves out on the line. It does not weigh easily with me, Illya. It never has.” Waverly sighs, tying off one of the stitches. “And yet, it must be done.”

“We don’t- none of us hold it against you, Sir,” Illya says, leaning his head down on the countertop. God, he’s so tired. “We know what has to be done. We did sign up for this.”

“Some less than others,” Waverly remarks as he cuts the thread.

“Yes,” Illya murmurs into the cool stone of the countertop. “Some less than others. But I know that if I asked to leave, you would let me. Not that I would. But…if I did, you would not stop me.” He turns his head, moving slightly to a cooler spot on the counter. “That is why I stay.”

“I won’t lie, Illya, knowing that is a reassurance.” Waverly re-threads the needle with another spool of sterile thread. “Last one. The rest of these are good stitches, by the way. They won’t need redoing.”

“I didn’t know you were field-trained still, Sir,” Illya says softly. He presses his forehead to the cool stone of the counter, fighting off a wave of exhaustion riding after the nausea as he feels Waverly tugging at his skin again.

“Technically I’m not,” Waverly says. “But these aren’t skills that you easily forget. It’s been a while since my Circus days, but I still remember most of what I learnt as an agent during the height of the Cold War. This is one of the nicer bathrooms I’ve stitched up wounds in, though.”

Illya huffs a laugh. “This one has hot water and clean towels, which easily makes it top ten.”

“Who did these stitches?” Waverly asks as he starts tying the second one off.

Illya hesitates. “A…a friend,” he says eventually. “Of sorts. I…I had to explain why I was there, why I was hurt. But I haven’t compromised us.”

“These are exceptional circumstances,” Waverly says evenly, snipping the thread trailing from Illya’s side. “If you trust this person not to compromise your position, then I’ll ask no more of it.”

“I trust him,” Illya says slowly. He didn’t have any answer to that question right up until he opened his mouth, but he doesn’t think that he’s wrong. From the little he read about him, back when it was just an errant curiosity, Prado didn’t seem the type to cause any unnecessary bloodshed, which is what would inevitably occur if he were to loosen his lips.

There’s a quieter voice, whispering in the back of his mind. That he knows Napoleon. That he’s spent nearly a year getting to know him, sitting across from him with endless mugs of coffee, a slice of peach pie, and it can’t have all been lies. It can’t have been.

Napoleon talked him down from a panic attack and stayed with him for the entire day afterwards. Illya doesn’t think he’s imagining the concern he remembers that day, the way Napoleon had drawn all over his arm with that biro to distract him from the horrible urge to pinch and press and claw at his skin, how he’d sung until Illya had fallen asleep.

Maybe that’s just what he wants to believe. He doesn’t have any idea anymore.

Waverly smears cream over the stitches and then sticks a new piece of gauze firmly down. “Try not to pop any of these, please. There’s some food downstairs that you’re going to go and eat, and then you’re to find a bed and sleep for at least eight hours. There should be one free.” He starts packing away the medical kit that is strewn around the bathroom, bundling the rubbish up in a bloody towel. “I don’t think I need to state explicitly that when it comes time to leave here and assign missions, I will be sending you and Gaby after the head of the family.”

“I figured that would be us,” Illya says. He picks up his shirt and grimaces at the tackiness of the blood soaked into the side. He puts it back down on top of the bloodied towel.

“You have about three days, I think, before I’ll be sending you and Gaby out to Europe,” Waverly says. “So use that time wisely. Normally I would not send you out with those stitches in your side, but unfortunately, needs must. You and Gaby are the best team that I have, and for this…unpleasant situation that we find ourselves in, I need the best.”

“We’ll see it done,” Illya says.

Waverly pauses at the door. “I am certain you will, Illya,” he says quietly. “Now, get some food and rest.”

Aja wolf-whistles at him as he goes downstairs to find something to eat. “Would look better without the gauze and the dried blood you’ve missed, but damn good, Kuryakin.”

Illya sticks his middle finger up at her as he goes over to the pots on the stove. “My shirt was too bloody to keep wearing.”

Aja eyes him up and down. “Well, all the better for the rest of us. Are you finally taking a break?”

Illya just hums in the back of his throat as he ladles stew into a bowl. “Third door on the right, after you turn left at the top of the hallway,” Aja says. “There’s a free bed there, and a stash of chocolate in the bedside table. You look like you need it.”

“Thanks, Aja,” Illya says. He glances over his shoulder at her. “Have you heard from Mateo yet?”

“Nope,” Aja replies. Her expression falls for a moment before she catches it and puts it back in place. “It’s been less than a day. I’m sure he’s fine. He’s probably out doing recon and hasn’t checked his phone yet, the idiot. Besides, he’s in South America. They can’t have people as far out as that, can they?”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Illya says. “He’s been in worse scrapes than this.”

“Yeah,” Aja says. “Yeah. He’s going to be fine.”

Illya leaves her alone in the kitchen. Gaby is nowhere to be seen, but he doesn’t go looking for her. He barely manages to summon enough energy to eat and then drag himself up the stairs to find a bed.

The third door on the right, left after the hallway, is empty. There’s a double bed that looks like the most inviting thing Illya has ever seen. When he pulls open the drawer of the bedside table, Illya finds an unopened slab of Cadbury’s milk chocolate, a handful of mini chocolates from a Celebrations box, and a few packets of wine gums and Haribo’s. One of them still has the petrol station sticker on the plastic.

He thinks that he’s going to lie awake for hours, turning every moment of him over in his head, trying to find a point where he could have fixed this. He’s out as soon as his head hits the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. Gaby is _pissed_. Mostly at Napoleon, but Illya happens to be a good target, so she takes it out on him as well. Don't worry, they know each other far too well for this argument to actually mean anything in the grand scheme of things. And finally, after about 50k, there is actual plot happening. I know, I can hardly believe it myself.
> 
> I do like writing Waverly, he's just so damn British. He's an interesting character to write as well, because he is responsible for the agents who put their lives on the line for him, and under all that British pragmatism and stiff upper lip, that has to weigh heavily on him.
> 
> We're getting somewhat close to the end of this story, but remember, there will be a sequel! Which is in fact already written, but I'm being terrible about sticking to a publishing schedule because of being knackered, so at this point, chapters are just going to come when they come. I'm going to do my utter best to keep it to at least once a week, hopefully quicker, but I can't make any promises. Seriously, it's only 8pm right now and I'm struggling keeping my eyes open whilst writing this.
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are much loved.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to put this up last night, but got distracted by watching Mamma Mia, so I guess blame ABBA and Meryl Streep for this being late? Not that there is actually a set schedule, time means nothing anymore.
> 
> I have to say, I love everyone's assumptions in the comments that Gaby and Illya are going to deal with this mess, and _then_ deal with Napoleon, and that Napoleon isn't doing something stupid in the background right now as all of this is happening. Illya was about a solid fifty percent of Napoleon's impulse control without even knowing it.

Gaby is waiting for him when Illya finally drags himself awake and downstairs. She hands him a plate as he walks into the kitchen. “Eat.”

Illya looks down at it. “Why have you made me ‘sorry I got you shot’ plate?” he asks.

Bacon, eggs, beans, toast and what looks like an attempt at improvised hash browns. Gaby took him out for a full English after a mission, early in their partnership, where her hesitation ended with Illya taking a bullet to the leg. Ever since then, it’s been a tradition. Something goes wrong, and as soon as they escape from the hospital or UNCLE medical, the other buys or makes them a specific breakfast.

Illya’s apology breakfast for Gaby, for when he gets angry and does something to jeopardise the mission that ends with her swearing viciously at him as he digs a bullet out of her, is always a bacon and sausage frittata and at least two Bloody Marys.

Gaby gestures at him to sit down. “I don’t exactly have a breakfast meal for ‘sorry that I yelled at you because the guy you were dating turned out to be an international art thief’, so this is the best I can do. Sorry there’s no mushrooms, but I can’t exactly go out to the shops right now to buy anything.” She picks up a piece of toast from her own plate, smothering it in beans. “Don’t worry, I made sure not to let your bacon get too crispy.”

“We weren’t dating,” Illya gets out. Gaby fixes him with a look.

“That’s the bit you decide to focus on? Just eat your breakfast.”

Illya sighs. “Fine, I accept your apology. Sorry for not realising that you were upset with it as well.” He takes a mouthful of Gaby’s apology breakfast. The bacon is fried just how he likes it.

“Mark and April are on their way in,” Gaby says as she mops up her egg yolk with a piece of bread. “They’re bringing an armoury. Stolen, I think, but it’ll do.”

Illya hums. “Waverly will send us out soon, then.”

Gaby just nods.

People come in and out of the kitchen as they eat, analysts and agents swapping shifts, dragging themselves away from laptops and files and into beds or the other way around. There are a couple more that Illya didn’t see yesterday, ones who got in overnight, finally getting out from wherever they were hiding or running from whoever Caraceni sent after them. A few stop by for a quick bite, catching up with Gaby and Illya as they wolf down some food and then turn to get straight back to work.

“So,” Gaby says when the kitchen is empty again. “Now you’ve slept and eaten and are generally not in such a foul mood as you were yesterday…”

“What.”

“Napoleon. Had any thoughts about what you’re going to do?”

“Do?” Illya asks. He shakes his head, pushing a piece of toast around his plate to scrape up the last of the baked beans. “He will be gone by the time we finish this. There is no way he is staying after…that.”

Gaby hums. “We could track him down.”

“What was it you told that American agent?” Illya asks, glancing up at her. “Bit above our paygrade, is that it?” He shakes his head again. “We have bigger things to worry about.”

“He could blow your cover,” Gaby warns. “Burn you. I’m sure he has the type of contacts that would pay handsomely for such information.”

Illya hesitates. Something in him rebels at the idea, at the thought of Napoleon selling his secrets to the highest bidder for some quick cash. “He must know that if he burns me, I can track him down,” he says eventually, instead of the hundred other thoughts fighting for space in his head. He can’t give them too much thought, or he’ll just be dealing out rope to hang himself with.

Gaby nods. “I hope so. He isn’t stupid, despite everything he’s done. He should damn well know we’ll come after him if he threatens you in any way.”

Illya just hums. Gaby goes back to eating, stuffing more bacon in her mouth than should reasonably be able to fit in there. She says something, but it’s completely incomprehensible, and Illya ignores it in favour of pushing food half-heartedly around his plate. If it’s important, she’ll tell him again later.

“Spit it out.”

Illya reflexively swallows his mouthful. “What?”

Gaby gives him a look. “You obviously want to ask something, or say something. Spit it out.”

Illya focuses on chasing the last of the hash brown around his plate. “I just…do you think that he meant any of it?”

Gaby sets her knife and fork down. “Run me through that one more time.”

Illya stares down at the table. “Do you think that he meant any of it? I knew him for nearly a year now. We spent so much time together. Do you think that he actually…cared? Or if it was an act the entire time?”

He can hear Gaby breathe out. “I’m feeling very uncharitable to him right now, so I would like to say that yes, he was playing a very complicated, exhausting and manipulative game every single time you interacted. But I don’t know.”

“It is very long time to keep up the act.”

“Yeah,” Gaby sighs. “Yeah, it is. I’m sorry, darling, that I don’t have any answers for you.” She drums her fingers on the table. “Do you want answers? Or do you just want to forget it all?”

“I can’t,” Illya says immediately. He can feel the flush in his cheeks at Gaby’s knowing look. “You won’t leave it alone either. At least this way, neither of us go behind each other’s backs.”

Gaby nods. “Okay, so when we finish all of this, we go after him and get some answers. Together. Deal?”

“Deal,” Illya says. He rolls his eyes when Gaby holds her fist out. “No, chop shop girl.”

“It’s not a real deal if you don’t do this,” Gaby says firmly. “Come on, Illya.”

Illya groans. “Fine, fine.” He reaches out and bumps his fist with Gaby’s. “You win. You always do.”

“Yeah, well you love me for it.” Gaby downs an entire glass of water in one and gets up from the table. “Come on, I was only able to fend off the hordes from the kitchen for so long and only upon pain of death and or stealing all their snacks. Though I did hear from a little bird that a few people donated some of their hard-won snacks to be put in a certain drawer in a certain bedside table in a certain room for a certain someone…”

Illya stares at her as he starts clearing up. Predictably, the kitchen looks like a bomb has hit it. “That was…that was the others?”

“Aja organised it, I think, but others contributed. Nobody is quite sure what type of chocolate is your favourite, and I didn’t have the heart to spill your jelly popping candy chocolate secrets, so they gave you a selection.” Gaby nudges him in the shoulder as she passes him to the sink. “You looked like shit when you came in yesterday, even for your standards. They thought it might help.”

Illya just clears his throat. “We have work to do.”

“Yeah,” Gaby says. “Starting with these dishes. I cooked, darling, so you better get to work.”

0-o-0-o-0

“Clear.”

“Clear.” Illya lowers his rifle down from his shoulder as he steps through the large sliding doors of the barn. “They knew we were coming.”

Gaby sighs, slinging her own rifle over her back as she joins him. “Yeah. It looks like it. House is empty and appears to mostly be cleared out. We’ll do a full sweep anyway, see if we can turn anything up.” Behind her a team of UNCLE and Interpol agents scatter out around them, spilling out of the barn that contains nothing but bales of straw, empty crates and the sense that someone scattered in a rush. The Italian countryside unfurls below them, farmland and vineyards, pristine rural idyll.

Illya sighs and back-slings his rifle. “Why does it always have to be Italy,” he mutters. “Why does it always have to be fucking Italy.”

There’s a metal barrel on one end in the back garden. It’s still smouldering inside, wisps of smoke curling up in a coy taunt. If they’d been a few hours earlier. If they had just been quicker.

“Dig through this,” Illya snaps at one of the agents. “Any scrap of paper that is not ashes, I want it found.”

His rifle finds itself back in his arms as he turns and stalks back to the house. Someone had tipped them off that they were coming, with enough time for them to pack up anything that could be hard evidence against the family and burn what they couldn’t carry. The Caracenis have a network of informants and eyes across Italy and spreading out into Western Europe, enough to have been able to find Illya in London and get the drop on him, even if it didn’t work out the way they wanted. It was inevitable that they were spotted.

Hopefully the three other strike teams hitting warehouses and compounds across the region, slowly encircling the Caraceni’s family home on the western coast, will have had better luck.

He stalks back into the house. The main study is bland, shelves full of books that look like they’ve never been touched, computer monitors without desktops connected. Generic art on the wall that he tries not to look too hard at. When Illya trails one finger across the mantelpiece, it comes away grey with dust.

It takes him nearly ten minutes of searching, but he finds the real study. It’s hidden behind a damn bookcase.

Some days, Illya is convinced that he is actually living in a spy novel.

This study is used. There are pens with chewed ends still resting on the desk, drawers hanging open and empty save for a few pieces of paper that mean very little when he looks at them. Illya turns in a slow circle, rifle a reassuring weight in his hand. Someone with a secret study hidden behind a bookcase must have a bolt hole in here. A false drawer. A hole carefully carved out behind the skirting board.

A few notebooks and folders have fallen over on one of the shelves where there aren’t enough to prop them up. When Illya pushes them back up, there’s a thin line of dust next to the outline of a book that isn’t there.

“Where would I hide a book,” he mutters to himself, slowly turning and looking around the room, “if I am someone who likes to hide entire studies behind a bookcase. What would I do with it, if I burnt everything else out in the garden.”

He glances at the fireplace. There are a few half-burnt logs there, fallen in on top of themselves, blackened and charred. When Illya crouches down and hovers his hand over the grate, there’s still warmth that licks up at him. The ashes at the bottom under the logs are flattened out, like they were blown out from the centre of the grate by something.

Illya pushes some of them away, and then pauses. Very carefully, he reaches under the grate. His fingers scrape against the pages of a book.

The cover is charred when he pulls it out, the front cover flaking away under his hands. But the pages themselves are intact. He teases some of the pages apart to see columns and columns of cramped writing, lists and numbers and names.

It’s an accounts book. Illya even recognises some of the names as he scans through the pages. It’s not everything they need to go after the Caracenis, not by a long way. But it’s a damn good start.

“Illya?”

“In here,” Illya calls over his shoulder, not looking up from the book. Some of the pages are fragile, some of the names aren’t recognisable under the soot and ash smeared across them. But it’s intact enough to make something of it.

Gaby steps up behind him, peering over his shoulder. “Oh shit,” she breathes out. “Is that…”

“Accounts book.” Illya carefully thumbs through to the last pages with any writing. “I think he tried to burn it, but it fell off the fire and under the grate.” He’s not quite sure how it ended up under the grate. The pattern of ash is strange. The fire is still warm, but the logs haven’t burnt all the way down.

“Well, thank fuck for that,” Gaby says. “How intact is it?”

“Some pages lost, but most still readable.” Illya gets to his feet with a wince, carefully handing the book over to Gaby and the waiting evidence bag. “We’re were lucky.”

The words don’t quite sit right with him, but he doesn’t know why.

There’s no time to dwell on it. They have to keep moving.

“They know we’re coming now,” he says as Gaby hands the book over to an eager analyst. “There is no point trying to be quiet.”

“Time to start fires?” Gaby asks. She pushes her hair back from where it sticks to her forehead with sweat. The smell of burnt paper drifts past them on the breeze and Illya’s side twinges. Three agents still haven’t called in.

“Time to start fires,” Illya agrees. He shoulders his rifle. “Let’s smoke the bastards out.”

They move across the countryside of southern Italy, burning as they go. Waverly sends through objectives and locations, and Gaby and Illya plot missions together over cups of cheap coffee going cold by their sides, the comforting click of magazines steadily being filled with rounds and the murmur of agents prepping to their orders filling the space around them.

They drive out at the killing hours, dusk as the sun is just leeching into the sky. Illya’s rifle is a reassuring weight in his arms, Gaby at his shoulder as they overturn houses and compounds and flush out Caraceni’s people wherever they go. Illya loses track of the number of people they take down, handing them over to Interpol agents to be bundled into the back of nondescript white vans. It doesn’t matter. This won’t end until they’ve dismantled the whole empire that Caraceni has built.

Illya won’t be fully happy until he has burned and salted the earth that they built it from, ripped them out from the roots until he’s sure that another criminal empire won’t just grow up in their place.

More and more evidence turns up at each place they turn over, a trail of breadcrumbs leading them straight towards Caraceni. A false drawer left open to reveal a damming set of documents that were left behind. A jammed gate delaying their targets enough for Illya to get to them before they disappear. A getaway car that breaks down just as Illya is speeding up the narrow Italian country lane on his motorbike. They’re so surprised to see him that he manages to put down two of them before the others even draw their guns. He wrecks another bike throwing it at the last person when they nearly graze him with a bullet, but it’s worth it when he throws open the boot of the car to find a stash of military-grade weapons, blocks of what looks like cocaine and a box of files.

It’s lucky. It’s really damn lucky.

Illya has always had the opposite of whatever luck is. He doesn’t think that it’s just magically turned around right when he needs it most.

“Call just came through,” Gaby says, letting herself into Illya’s room. “Caraceni’s family house. Waverly is sending the blueprints through, so it’s an all-nighter for us planning a break in and whether we just want to set fire to the entire mansion to flush him out or do this the old-fashioned way. The strike is tomorrow evening.”

Illya nods, but doesn’t look up from his laptop. “You’re being paranoid,” Gaby says as she sits down on her bed and pulls the box of pizza towards her.

“That’s our job,” Illya mutters. “Something is wrong.”

“Something is always wrong.” Gaby stuffs half a pizza slice into her mouth in one go. “Yeah, this has seemed easier than it should be. Yeah, it feels like we’re following a trail of breadcrumbs being laid out for us. But one, we are incredibly paranoid people. We might just have rattled them enough for them to be making stupid mistakes. And two, if there is some nefarious deeper plot here, it’s working in our favour and not theirs.”

“We could be walking straight into a trap.”

“Pretty dumb trap,” Gaby remarks as she stuffs another slice of pizza into her mouth. “Giving us a bunch of evidence that we could use to bring down a lot of the large players around Caraceni, if not them yet.” She holds the box out to him. “Eat.”

Illya obediently takes a slice and folds it in half. “Blueprints are through. We’re going to need to split up, cover multiple exits. I need aerial surveillance as well. The roof might be a good entrance point, but I need to know what they have around it.” He can feel Gaby’s stare on the side of his face, and eats the pizza slice in a few bites. “Something is wrong, Gaby. This has been too easy.”

“Well, now you’ve said that, I’m sure this final assault on Caraceni is going to be hell and we’re all going to get much closer to dying than we would like.” Gaby opens up her own laptop, wiping greasy fingers off on a shirt that has seen better days, none of them in the past two weeks. “We’ll deal with it when we deal with it. We can improvise.”

Illya snorts. “Because that always works out so well for us.” He reaches out and Gaby pushes the pizza box towards him. “We need to ask April for more firepower for the team. They might have defences that need more than a hand grenade or two to breach.”

“No stealthy entrances, then?”

“If I can get in via the roof, then yes. Up to a point.” Illya’s lips curl in a wry smile. “I’m sure you will hear my signal when I need to start blowing things up.”

“Darling, I’m sure you could blow the roof off if you wanted to,” Gaby says. “And I’ll eternally love you for it. Now, finish the pizza before I eat it all, and then let’s get to work. And tell me now if you’re going to need a helicopter and a parachute, because I can’t just pull them out of my purse.”

“What, you can stash half a car in there, but not a parachute?” Illya dodges out of the way of Gaby’s pen as she throws it at his head. “I’m not getting up to get that for you.”

“You will if you want your damn parachute. And a new rifle after you broke the butt on that guy’s head.”

Illya wordlessly fetches the pen.

0-o-0-o-0

“See you there.”

“I’ll wait for the fires to start before I start shooting.” Gaby’s grin is bright in the lights on the helicopter as she hands him his rifle. The rotors are already turning above his head, the bulk of a parachute strapped to his back. Gaby can count three separate guns on him somewhere, a pistol on each thigh and Illya’s favoured rifle now cradled in his arms. There’s more ammunition in his webbing and tac vest, and knowing Illya, probably a few more clips stashed in his pockets. They don’t quite know what they’re walking into.

Illya leans back, his weight resting against the rope holding him in place on the side of the helicopter. “You have enough grenades?”

“One can never have enough grenades.” Gaby checks her own webbing, feels the four grenades there in her pockets. “But yeah, I’ll be fine. I’m not the one parachuting onto the roof. In the dark.”

“Done worse than this, chop shop girl,” Illya says with a wry smile. He checks his watch. “We should get into the air, give you enough time to get your team into position.”

Gaby holds out her fist, and Illya reluctantly bumps it with his own. “Fifty quid and all the paperwork from this mission says that I get to Caraceni first,” she shouts at him over the roar of the rotor blades as they pick up speed. She steps back, hair escaping from her braid and whipping across her face as the wind picks up. The helicopter slowly begins to lift from the ground.

Illya hangs out of the side of the helicopter, one hand on the rope keeping him on the skids. “You’re on, chop shop girl,” he shouts down at her.

Gaby turns back towards her own jeep and her strike team waiting to move out. She can’t help but feel that there’s something off about this mission. That Illya is right, that this has been too easy. A trail of breadcrumbs leading them straight to Caraceni.

She has grenades in her pockets and a strike team at her back ready to take Caraceni down. If they’re walking into a trap, she’s going to damn well make sure that she springs it on her own terms, and takes enough firepower to blow everything right back up in their faces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gaby and Illya have very rarely managed to sustain a proper fight for any length of time, they're both very good at holding grudges except when it comes to each other. Sorry this one is a little shorter than usual, it's just the way that it's fallen out. The next chapter will be longer, and some shit is about to start...
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are much loved.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got up at 4:45 am this morning for horse-related things, so excuse these notes for maybe being a little all over the place, I am so tired. But, I have also been waiting for so long for everyone to finally get to this chapter, so here it is! I apologise in advance, and remind everyone to scroll back up to the tags quickly and remind themselves that the angst with a happy ending tag is not a lie. This will end happily, I promise. Most likely next chapter, because we're actually very close to the end right now! Don't worry though, if you're hanging on for the established relationship, because there is a 50k sequel. I also wanted an established relationship, so I wrote it.

The roof rushes up to meet him. Illya rolls as he lands, absorbing the blow. Even before he’s come to a stop on the gravel he is reaching for the parachute spilling out behind him, pulling it in and bundling it up. He detaches himself, pulls his rifle into his arms and kneels there, waiting.

Nothing. No alarm raised. No frantic shouts of security guards.

He taps his earpiece, murmuring an all clear. There’s nothing but static.

“Damn,” Illya mutters. Caraceni must have jammers across the property. The paranoia of the head of a criminal empire isn’t particularly surprising, but it is annoying.

The crashing of the ocean against the cliffs drowns out the quiet clicks of Illya’s lockpicks at the roof door. There’s a boat off the coast, lying in wait for anyone who tries to escape via the cliffs and the ocean. Other agents are circling the estate, cutting off every exit they know of as Illya slowly pulls the door open and slips silently inside the house.

It’s quiet. Illya moves down the stairs from the roof, almost silent across the marble. The walls gleam around him even in the darkness. He can taste the money surrounding him, saturating the air.

He turns the corner, rifle held in tightly to his shoulder. There are two dark shapes crouched low down the hallway.

Illya flings himself back around the corner, rifle raised. There are no shouts of alarm, no wild shots fired towards him. Only the faint rustle of cloth against stone.

His earpiece is still hissing low static in his ear. Illya pushes around the corner, finger curling around the trigger.

A guard glares back at him from across the hallway. He’s bound, arms behind his back. There’s a piece of tape over his mouth. A second guard is slumped over next to him, face down on the floor.

Illya carefully moves down the hallway and crouches down beside them. The second guard is only unconscious, mottled bruising around his throat. Illya slings his rifle and pulls out his pistol, setting it carefully down against the first guard’s leg. “If you scream, I will shoot,” he whispers. “If you try to move, I will shoot. Understood?”

The guard nods frantically, staring down at the pistol. Illya reaches forwards and eases the tape off enough for him to speak. “Who did this?”

“I- I didn’t see his face,” the guard whispers. “It…it happened so fast. I was down before I realised there was someone there. Taser, I think.”

Illya nods. “Is Caraceni in the house?”

“In the office,” the guard whispers. “I…I think. I don’t know, I’m sorry, I don’t know. Please don’t-”

Illya sticks the tape back over his mouth. A sharp movement has the guard slumping back against the wall, unconscious. Illya leaves the guards there and keeps moving, his pistol gripped tight in his hand.

He finds more people as he moves further into the house. Some are awake, bound and gagged and struggling against tight zip ties behind closed doors. Some are unconscious, taser marks burnt into their necks. Illya keeps moving.

Caraceni’s office is at the end of hallway. The ostentatious runner rug stretching the length of the marble floor muffles Illya’s footsteps as he follows the curve of the wall. The door is ajar. As he nears, he can hear muffled voices from behind it.

“I really don’t think you have it in you.”

“I would be careful about saying that to the person with a gun pointed at you. I might just pull the trigger out of spite.”

The pistol nearly falls from Illya’s grip.

He knows that voice.

He’s spent hours replaying every single thing that voice has said over the past weeks, trying to find the moment he should have realised. He could recognise that voice anywhere, that half-American, half-British accent tinged underneath with the low drawl of the south that he still hasn’t been able to quite get rid of.

“Really, Prado. This is hardly your preferred method. You have never bothered with guns before. Quite dull, really.”

Irma Caraceni sounds bored. Illya edges closer to the door, peering through the crack at the hinge. She is sat behind her desk. Her hands are flat on the wood in front of her.

He shifts. He can just make out the line of Napoleon’s body, the muzzle of the pistol pointed steadily at Irma. His hand tightens around the metal in his grasp, slick with his own sweat.

“It’s just you and me, Irma,” Napoleon says. “All your guards are disabled, or sent on a wild goose chase through the Italian countryside. The authorities will be here soon. Better that you give in.”

“Giving in is hardly my type,” Irma drawls. She taps her long fingernails on the desk. “I’ll admit, Prado, that you have surprised me. I honestly thought that you were dead. When I heard that you had retired, I thought that people were just tiptoeing around the fact that you had finally been killed.”

“Still alive and kicking,” Napoleon says, and Illya can hear the smirk in his voice. He swallows. His heart thuds painfully in his throat. “And a little pissed off that I had my retirement broken because of you and that band of thugs that follow you around like ducklings. I never did like your business practices.”

Irma hums. “Oh, well, we can’t all be the white knights of the criminal world. Some of us have had to make tough decisions to get to where we are.”

Napoleon spits out a laugh. “Yeah, it must have been so tough for you to send your people out to murder anyone who stood in your way and sit back to reap the rewards. Do you even know how many people you left dead in your wake? How many others you screwed over for money or power or because you thought it was good fun? Or did it all just fall under…business expenses.”

Irma examines her fingernails. A sharp movement from Napoleon makes her brow arch, and she slowly sets her hands back down on the desk. “I am tiring of your preaching, Prado. A thief does not get to condescend to me, especially when he was ever so boring compared to my standards.” She leans forwards, and Illya adjusts the grip on his gun. “Why are you here? You shunned me and my family, just like you shunned the others like us. You hardly have a stake in this.”

“Let’s just say that I’ve lost a few things I care about, and I’m not interested in seeing them get hurt any further.” Napoleon steps forwards, his face just coming into Illya’s view. Illya swallows heavily. “It’s surprising how motivated one can be when the people they care about are hurt. Funny thing, friends. They have such a way of getting so deep beneath your skin before you even realise it.”

Irma leans back. “Ah. I had heard that you were…sentimental. Emotional. Hmm, easily compromised, I suppose is the best way to put it. It’s a shame, Prado. With your skills you could have made an exceptional thief, if you had only been able to put aside the _sentiment_. Now you’re just…dull.”

“Better dull than a murderer,” Napoleon says sharply.

“And yet,” Irma says softly, “here you are. With a gun pointed straight at my heart.” She shakes her head. “Such a step _down_ , Prado.”

“That is not my name,” Napoleon snaps. The muzzle of the gun wavers slightly. Illya can see a muscle jumping in his jaw. “And I’m not going to let you hurt the people I care about because of some stupid vendetta.”

“Alexander Waverly tried to take everything from me,” Irma hisses, her nails clacking on the wood as she leans forwards suddenly. “Why should I not repay the favour? Take some of those agents that he becomes so _attached_ to. Teach him what it means to lose someone.”

She sits back a moment later, the snarl on her lips disappearing. “But, here I am. You have a gun, and I do not. So humour me for a moment, Prado, before you put a bullet between my eyes. Why did you…retire? What amongst all of the delights available to you could have possibly persuaded you to give it up?”

Napoleon laughs, the sound brittle and harsh. “All of this, all this wealth and glory and treasure that you have? It’s not real. You’ve just borrowed it. And it’ll get taken from you soon enough.” He shakes his head. “I’m not going to try and explain it all to you, Irma. You won’t understand. But I left to leave on my own terms.”

“Try me,” Irma says, her voice flat. “I am an intelligent woman.”

Napoleon snorts. “Intelligence and compassion aren’t correlated. I don’t have time to try and explain to you how much I started to hate all of this. It all went stale. The glitter rubs off, and it’s all just dirt and blood beneath.”

“I never would have guessed that you could have grown such a conscience,” Irma drawls.

“Yeah, well I surprise even myself sometimes,” Napoleon says dryly. “I doubt you would understand it. You cut out any semblance of a heart years ago.”

“Well, I hope that your bullets are able to find it, then.” Irma settles back in her chair. “Come on then Prado, or whatever you call yourself now. Get on with it.”

Illya watches as Napoleon raises his pistol. The muzzle shakes slightly. Irma arches a brow. Her hands inch closer towards her across the desk.

Illya slams the door open with his shoulder. His gun is pointing straight at Irma as he stalks into the room. “Stand up and put your hands behind your head.”

“Thank fuck,” Napoleon breathes.

“Drop the gun,” Illya snarls at him. The muzzle of his gun doesn’t leave Irma’s chest as he glances over at Napoleon. “Put it down. Prado.”

“Well, I see you survived,” Irma drawls, slowly standing to her feet and regarding him with an arched brow. “How fascinating. And I presume you’re acquainted with dear Prado here as well?”

“I’m not your dear anything,” Napoleon snaps. He turns to Illya, the pistol in his hand not lowering from Irma. “Illya. Are you okay?”

“Put the gun _down_ ,” Illya snaps at him. “Then get on your knees and put your hands behind your head.”

“Illya,” Napoleon breathes out. “Please. I wasn’t lying to you. I promise that I wasn’t lying to you.”

“I won’t ask again.”

“Put some zip ties on her first. I don’t trust her.”

Illya snorts, but he turns back to Irma. “Step forwards and put your hands behind your back. Slowly.” He stalks slowly forwards, then lowers his pistol and pulls out a zip tie in one quick motion, turning around her to secure her hands behind her back. Irma makes a disgruntled sound, but doesn’t move. “Now put the gun down.”

“I really don’t trust her, Illya.” Napoleon adjusts his grip on his pistol, keeping it pointed towards Irma. “I really, really don’t trust her.”

“You do not get a _say_ in this,” Illya snarls. “And I do not trust anyone in this room apart from myself.”

He can see Napoleon flinch out of the corner of his eye. He turns to Illya, his eyes wide, and Illya can’t help but look at him. “I know,” he says softly. “I know, god, I know, and I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I never wanted…god, Illya, I just wanted something _normal_.” He laughs, the sound choking in his throat. “Picked the wrong place to set up for that, I suppose. But I didn’t- I did lie to you, but only about this. Only about a past I really wanted to try and forget. Everything else was true. I promise.”

“I thought this was all too easy,” Illya snaps. He can’t look away from Napoleon’s face, from the pleading look there that looks far too raw and desperate to be a calculated move. “You were ahead of us every step, leaving little clues for us to find. I bet you thought it was funny, watching us scramble around at each house, trying to get here?”

“God, Illya, stop it,” Napoleon hisses at him. “Why the hell do you think I’m here? To try and screw you over? I was going to leave, I was going to pack up anything I couldn’t leave behind, try to start over and forget this entire fucking mess that I’ve gotten myself into. But I looked into what had happened, who had gone after you. And I couldn’t leave it alone. I couldn’t leave you to face _her_ on your own. And if it ends with you taking me into custody, handing me over to Interpol to be shut away for the rest of my life, then so be it. You’re safe. That’s enough for me.”

Illya can’t look away.

He knows what he should do. But what he should do and what he wants to do are two very different things.

Moscow whispers over his shoulder. The spectre of duty that has followed him for so long hovers at his side.

He is so _tired_ of being lied to.

He is so tired of being haunted by the past that made him.

Napoleon turns to him, gun still in his hand. “Please, Illya.”

Illya takes a breath. “You want to prove to me that you’re not lying?”

“God, yes, Illya,” Napoleon says. “Anything.”

Illya swallows. “Put the gun down. Put it down, Napoleon.”

Napoleon breathes out, and a smile, a real smile, slowly curls his lips. “Gladly.”

The click of the gun set down on the marble floor reverberates through Illya’s bones. “Did you mean it?” he finds himself asking.

“Mean what?” Napoleon asks.

“This.” Illya’s gaze skips away from Napoleon’s face. “Us. All of it.”

“Oh, Illya,” Napoleon breathes. He reaches out slowly, and Illya shivers when his fingers grip his arm. “Yes. Yes, of course I did. I never wanted to lie to you, but I was…I got scared. And I am so, _so_ sorry.”

“Well,” Irma says, “this has been…illuminating.” She straightens up. “Quite frankly, Kuryakin, I really don’t see what Waverly sees in you. And Prado, or whatever else you would like to style yourself as, I have to say I’m not overly surprised. You always were…weak.” She smiles sharply, a twist of her dark red lips. “Sorry to say that I’ll have to cut this touching reunion short.”

Illya turns, but the cut zip ties are already falling away from her hands as she lunges for the desk and snatches up a handgun from the underside. “This has been entertaining, boys,” she drawls, levelling her gun at Illya, “but I’m afraid I must be off now.”

Her gaze turns to Illya, and the venom in her face makes Illya take a step back even as the muzzle of his own gun points straight at her chest. He reaches out and grabs Napoleon, grasping a fistful of his shirt and pulling Napoleon roughly behind him. Napoleon’s hand grazes his side as he stumbles behind him, his fingers tangling in the back of Illya’s shirt.

“You,” she hisses at Illya, heels clacking on the marble floor as she steps forwards. “Waverly’s loyal attack dog. How many people have you killed for him? How many lives have you ruined because he pointed you in their direction and let you off the leash? Do you even have any idea what the man you profess such loyalty to did to me?”

Illya levels his gun at her. “Put the gun down, get on your knees and put your hands behind your head.”

“He took my _child_ away from me,” Irma hisses. The gun trembles in her hands. “And you follow him? You swear loyalty to him? You’re no better than any of the people you have killed for him.”

Illya steps back. He can feel Napoleon’s breath on the back of his neck, Napoleon’s hand gripping the back of his shirt. “Put the gun down, get on your knees and put your hands behind your head,” he says. “I will not ask again.”

“I want Waverly to _pay_ ,” Irma snarls. “I want him to know what it’s like.” She glances behind Illya. “Nothing personal, Prado, but I never did like you anyway.”

Napoleon’s breath ghosts across the back of Illya’s neck. The sound of gunfire rips through the room.

A heavy weight falls onto Illya as Napoleon lunges forwards, sending them both sprawling across the marble floor. There’s a single shot, followed by a rapid burst of gunfire that drowns out everything.

His ears are ringing. Illya winces, one hand clutching at his side as he rolls over on the cold marble floor. There’s a shout, just audible above the high whine of static sending him reeling. Illya scrabbles for his gun and hauls himself to his feet, staggering to turn towards Irma. She is slumped against the wall, a smear of red spoiling the ornate wallpaper behind her shoulder. As Illya kicks the gun away from her hand, she looks up at him, bared teeth red with blood.

Illya doesn’t say anything as she snarls wordlessly, blood dribbling from the corner of her mouth as she pants for breath.

She’ll live. Illya can’t really bring himself to care either way.

Footsteps sound behind him, ringing out on the marble. He turns to see Gaby walk further into the room from the doorway, rifle held securely against her shoulder. “Nice timing,” he gets out, adrenaline slowly draining from his body and leaving him shaking.

Gaby sends him a relieved smile, and then her gaze skips over Illya’s shoulder. “Oh, you _bastard_ ,” she spits.

“Gaby-” Illya tries to step in between her and Napoleon just getting to his feet across the room, but Gaby shoulders past him. Other agents begin to slip inside, going to secure Irma and stop her from bleeding out.

“You utter _prick_ ,” Gaby snarls as she stalks towards him. “Oh, I am going to take my time with you. I am going to fucking enjoy it.”

“Gaby!” Illya snaps. He grabs her arm, stepping in between her and Napoleon. “Leave it.”

“Oh, if you think I’m just going to let him get away with breaking your fucking heart,” Gaby hisses. She struggles against Illya’s grip. “Let me go, Illya. Let me skewer the bastard.”

“Hey, Peril?”

It’s the tremor in Napoleon’s voice that makes Illya drop Gaby and turn around. Napoleon is standing by the balcony doors. As Illya turns to him, he peels his hand away from his side. It’s stained red with blood.

“ _Cowboy_.”

Illya starts forwards, but Napoleon holds a hand up. He takes a few steps back, pushing the balcony doors open and stumbling through them. The sound of the sea crashing against the cliffs fills the room. “Sorry, Peril,” he says, the corner of his lips curling in a wry smile tinged with pain. “I’ll see you soon, okay? I’ll see you soon.”

He staggers back. He hits the railing at the edge of the balcony. For a few moments he stands there, blood steadily dripping down onto the floor. And then he topples back over the side and down into the sea.

0-o-0-o-0

The sound of the room, agents spilling in behind her to take it apart, find every piece of evidence that they can use to put the Caracenis away, fades away around her. She watches Illya as he walks through the balcony doors, following the trail of blood to the railing. He stares over the side for a long, silent moment. Gaby can see his hands gripping tight to the railing, his knuckles white.

“Illya,” she says gently.

Illya starts. He turns away from the sea and pushes past Gaby back into the room.

Gaby catches a glimpse of his face as he stalks past. His expression is set in stone.

Irma is propped up against the wall still, panting between gritted teeth as an agent presses a wad of gauze to her shoulder. “Illya,” Gaby warns as he moves towards her. “What are you doing?”

Illya pulls out a handgun in one smooth movement and levels it at Irma.

The agent next to her freezes, slowly inching back. The sound of Illya’s ragged breathing echoes the frantic beat of Gaby’s heart as it leaps up to cling to her throat.

Irma grins up at him, blood mixing with red lipstick across her chin. “Waverly’s attack dog, loyal to the last. Go on, then. Add another one to your list of names. Comfort yourself by telling yourself that they all deserve to be there.”

Illya brings his other hand up to steady the gun. “Illya,” Gaby warns.

“Let us work this out between ourselves, Teller,” Irma says to her, not taking her eyes off Illya. “Keep going, Kuryakin. I would hate for you to not live up to your reputation.”

The muzzle of the gun is pointed straight between Irma’s eyes. “Do it,” Irma hisses, spitting blood at his feet. “Pay the price for your loyalty. It is all you are good for.”

Gaby watches as Illya breathes out. He lowers the gun, and it goes back into the holster at his side with a quiet click. “It is not,” he says. “And I will not.”

He crouches down next to Irma. “I will not talk to you of loyalty,” he says quietly. “You cannot understand how someone might serve another without fear. But you made a mistake, Irma. You did not ever think that someone could walk away from all of this. And so, you have lost.”

Irma bares her bloodied teeth at him. “Sentiment,” she spits. “It will kill you. Just like it killed your dear Prado.”

Illya doesn’t even move. “You pulled the trigger,” he says quietly. “Another one to add to your own list of names.” He rises smoothly to his feet, towering above her. “Hope that they do not haunt you in your cell, Irma Caraceni. You might find it unbearable.”

“Take her away,” Gaby says, and agents pull her roughly to her feet and out of the room. She turns to Illya, standing motionless in the middle of the study. His gaze is fixed on the balcony doors, and the sea beyond them. “Illya,” she says quietly.

Illya shakes his head, and slings his rifle across his back. “There is still work to do.”

She watches him stalk out of the room, his footsteps ringing out on the marble as he disappears deeper into the house. Only once she can’t hear him anymore does she turn, walk through the doors onto the balcony and look down over the railing.

She’s not sure what she was expecting to see. Maybe a body, dashed on the rocks of the cliff. Maybe sightless eyes staring back up from a face she thought she had known. But there is nothing. Just the endless crash of waves on the rocks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry?
> 
> Again, not really. I was so pleased with myself when I came up with that final paragraph.
> 
> I promise, this will all end well.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. The payoff for everything that I have put you through.
> 
> Enjoy.

Waverly finds him a short while after Irma Caraceni is taken away. He’s standing on the edge of the grounds, his feet only a few metres away from where the manicured lawns abruptly gives way to steep cliffs. The waves crash into the rocks below, the wind picking up and stirring the smell of cyprus trees and bergamot through the air. Illya doesn’t turn away from watching the spray arc up against the slick rocks as Waverly steps up beside him.

Waverly fishes around in a jacket pocket and then pulls out a packet of cigarettes. He shakes one out, holding the packet out to Illya. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Illya takes one. He has a lighter in one pocket, the metal cool beneath his fingers as he pulls it out. The light flickers in the wind, and Illya turns away to shield the flame until the cigarette catches. He breathes the smoke out, watching it curl and disappear into the breeze.

“Gaby briefed me on what went on in there,” Waverly says, staring out over the cliffs. “This thief that was there- Prado, was it?”

Illya nods. He takes a drag from the cigarette, watching the end flicker and burn. “An art thief,” he says quietly. “Never caught. He had disappeared two years ago. Interpol were putting a team together to catch him when he vanished.”

“Yes, the Interpol agents definitely did perk up when the name was mentioned.” Waverly gently blows a stream of smoke out into the night. “Caraceni shot him, yes? And he fell over the side into the sea?” At Illya’s nod, Waverly hums. “Well, I’ll alert the coastguard to keep an eye out for a body, but with the darkness and the strength of the current, I doubt he will turn up. Interpol will have to be satisfied with that.” He raises his cigarette to his mouth. “Wonder why he was there. Grudge against Caraceni, perhaps? Decided that within this chaos was the opportune time to act himself?”

“They didn’t like each other,” Illya just says.

Waverly hums again. “Well, what’s done is done, and with little harm to us.”

Illya stares out across the sea. There are lights just visible across the water, a small village sitting on the curve of the bay. They must still all be asleep, Illya thinks, with no idea of who had lived so close to them. By the time the first of them wake up, fishermen going out before dawn for the first catch, they will be gone from this place and the house will stand empty.

“She said that she wanted to make you pay.”

Illya keeps his gaze fixed on the lights across the water. “She wanted to kill me, because then you might know what it was like for her. When you took her child from her.”

Waverly takes a long drag on his cigarette. He blows the smoke out into the darkness. “If Irma Caraceni thinks I do not know what it might be like to lose a child, then she has no idea of anything,” he says quietly. “I have lost more of the people around me than have ever truly professed loyalty to her in the first place.”

“Did you kill her child?”

Waverly sighs softly. “When we first went up against Irma Caraceni and her family, it was…bloody. Far bloodier than this occasion. Agents were becoming casualties close to daily, on some weeks, and it was a war of attrition that stretched on for months. I had agents infiltrating her organisation however they could, but one by one, all of them were discovered. If we were lucky, they weren’t too badly hurt. But Irma liked to make…an example of those she found.”

“They knew what they were getting into,” Illya offers. “And they chose to do this.”

“And yet some days, that does not make it any easier to send you into an unwinnable war,” Waverly replies. He shakes his head. “No, I know what I ask of you. I know what it might lead to.” He trails off, tapping the ash from the end of his cigarette with one finger. “Anyway. We were running out of options. In a war of attrition, the side that can hire endless mercenaries tends to come out on top. One of my agents had been undercover for months, trying to get close to the Caracenis. She became friends with Irma’s daughter, Francesca. A chance meeting at a bar, I believe.”

Waverly sighs, and takes another drag on the cigarette before continuing. “Francesca was our way in. Young, impetuous and incredibly headstrong. Callie, our agent, believed that she was beginning to doubt her mother’s empire.” He shakes his head. “I should have seen it coming. But I was desperate for an end to all of this.”

“She betrayed her mother?” Illya asks. “Or she betrayed you?”

“Some of both,” Waverly replies. “Callie took a risk and told her about who she was. About us. Francesca took that to her mother. And then had a change of heart when Irma captured and tortured Callie for information.” His cigarette has almost burned down to the filter. Waverly stamps it out and lights another. “She betrayed her mother. It was enough for us to save Callie and for a stalemate to be reached, but no more.”

“And Francesca?”

The barest of smiles curls the corner of Waverly’s lips. “She and Callie run a small vineyard together in South Africa. They recently had a daughter together. I’m not sure whether Irma realised her daughter had betrayed her, and preferred to think of her as dead rather than a traitor, or whether she truly did believe I had killed her. Regardless, the outcome would have been the same.”

Illya nods. Waverly offers him another cigarette as his burns down to the filter, and he takes it. “Make no mistake, Illya. Just because I did not kill Francesca, it does not mean I have not killed others before for the sake of the work we do. Whether I took their lives myself, or ordered others to do so.”

“I know,” Illya says out into the darkness. He has taken some of those lives himself. He pauses. “It is worth it, though. What we have done.”

Waverly blows a plume of smoke out across the cliffs to disappear into the darkness. “Sometimes I think the most harm we can do is to ourselves,” he says quietly. “Sometimes, it feels as if we are all just children who never grew out of playing hide and seek, and turned it bloody because we didn’t know any other way.” He takes another drag from his cigarette. “But yes. It is worth it. It must be.”

Illya just nods again. They both fall silent, standing there with the waves crashing against the rocks below as their cigarettes slowly burn down to the filters. Waverly sighs, stamping his out beneath the heel of his shoe and bending down to pick up the stubs. “Well, we must be getting back,” he says.

“I could have killed her.”

Waverly pauses, half-turned away back towards the house. He rocks back on his heels. “You could have. And I daresay the world would not be worse off for it. A pragmatic view of things, perhaps, but one I have found necessary to cultivate.” He looks back towards Illya. “Ah. You want me to ask you why you did not?”

Illya glances away from him and takes a drag of his cigarette. “I’ve killed worse people than her before. And better people. I could have killed her.”

“And yet, you didn’t,” Waverly remarks. He sighs softly, and puts his hands in his pockets. “It seems like a night to exorcise some demons,” he murmurs. “Why did you leave her alive?”

Illya stamps out his cigarette and takes a deep breath, tinged with cyprus and bergamot and salt from the sea just beneath his feet. “Because what is the point of all this,” he says quietly out into the darkness, “if I let who I was dictate what I do now?”

Waverly dips his head. “Well said, Illya. Well bloody said.” He sighs, and the expression on his face when he looks over towards Illya is one of the most unguarded Illya thinks he has ever seen from him. “If you’ll permit an old, tired man his ramblings, then I’ll just say that I’ve always been incredibly grateful that you decided to do what you did, leaving the Kremlin for us. You have repaid me a thousand times over for the favour and the protection I granted you, and I’ll forever owe you for what you have done for me and for your loyalty. I hope that I can repay your trust in me.”

Illya stares at him. “What?” Waverly asks.

“Nothing,” Illya says. “I just…that was not very British of you.”

Waverly lets out a surprised laugh. “Well, I won’t tell if you don’t,” he says. “Now, I think we will leave Interpol to clear this mess up for now and head to get some sleep. An agent has liberated a few boxes of pizzelle biscuits from the pantry, all in the name of justice of course. They should keep us going until I can get a proper cup of tea.”

Illya picks up his cigarette stubs and looks out one last time across the water. “I’m surprised you don’t carry your own teabags around with you. Yorkshire Tea whenever you need it.”

Waverly hums. “Not a bad idea,” he remarks. He starts to walk back towards the house, still bathed in floodlights, and Illya follows. “You and Gaby both deserve a good bit of downtime after all of this,” Waverly says as they walk across the manicured lawn. “You should get some rest once we are back in London, once this is all cleared up. Maybe spend some more time with that handsome young man of yours from the shop downstairs?”

Illya definitely does not stumble over thin air. “Sir?”

Waverly sends him an amused look. “I am the director of an international intelligence agency,” he reminds Illya. “Half of my employees are addicted to his coffee, and the other half to his pastries. I have noticed. Personally, I think his scones, with a little bit of clotted cream and jam, are worth it all on their own.”

Illya can’t help but stare at him. They approach the house, the sound of agents systematically pulling apart every seam of Irma Caraceni’s life beginning to reach them. Gaby is waiting out on the terrace, her rifle slung over her back and a box of cookies in her hand. “Eat, before you have a complete adrenaline crash,” she says, handing him a cookie. She eyes Illya suspiciously. “Why do you smell of cigarette smoke?”

Illya avoids answering by eating half the cookie at once. “I will see you later,” Waverly says as he takes a cookie of his own. “There’ll be a car waiting to take you out to the hotel soon.” He pauses. “Well done, both of you. Tremendous work. And Illya, remember what I said. He’s a good one. Don’t let him slip through your fingers if you have the chance.”

With that, Waverly turns and leaves. Gaby eyes Illya warily. “Want to go raid Irma’s alcohol cabinet?”

“We are still on the job, chop shop girl,” Illya says sternly. Gaby just gives him a look, and he sighs. “Fill a bag with whatever you find. We’ll drink it all when we get home.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Gaby pauses, and then Illya suddenly finds himself staggering under the weight of her as she throws her arms around him. Her rifle bangs painfully into his side. “You’re my best friend, and I love you to pieces,” she mutters into his shoulder. “You know that, right?”

Illya pulls her into him, wrapping his arms around her. He can smell the pizzelle cookies in her hand, the sharp smell of cordite and what he just knows as Gaby, lingering engine oil and citrus and Gaby. “I know, chop shop girl,” he murmurs. “Love you too.”

Gaby pulls back, and Illya pretends that he can’t see the wetness in her eyes. She sniffs, wiping her sleeve across her face, and fishes out another cookie. “Home?”

“Alcohol,” Illya corrects. “Then home.”

0-o-0-o-0

The bell over the door rings as he pushes it open. The familiar smell of roasted coffee meets him as he steps inside. Nothing has changed. The tables and chairs are exactly where he remembers them, the armchair that slowly became his still pulled over near the counter. There’s a book on the table next to it, tattered and dog-eared. Illya remembers that he’d gotten about halfway through it before Napoleon brought over pie attempt number seventeen and he’d gotten distracted.

There’s a clattering from the back and a muffled curse. Illya instinctively starts forwards, the familiar greeting already on his tongue before he pauses. The urge to disappear back out of the door intensifies.

He can smell melted butter now, and something baking in the back. There isn’t anything playing on the speakers, but Illya can hear singing anyway, a low murmur drifting through from the back that is effortlessly familiar.

“ _I’m gonna lay down my heavy load, down by the riverside._

_Down by the riverside, down by the riverside._

_I’m gonna lay down my heavy load, down by the riverside._

_Ain’t gonna study, study war no more.”_

Napoleon appears from the back of the shop. The song abruptly trails off. The tea towel falls from his hands and he doesn’t bother to catch it. “Illya,” he says softly. “Hi.”

Illya takes a breath. He’s too far in to back out now.

He doesn’t _want_ to back out now.

He grips the file in his hands tighter, and makes himself walk up to the counter. “Tennessee,” he says.

“What?” Napoleon asks.

“Where you’re from,” Illya says, keeping his voice steady. “Tennessee. Specifically, Foxwood Heights in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Where your mother still lives and works as a nurse at the hospital.” He sets the file down on the counter between them. The sound echoes through the shop.

Napoleon stares at it, before reaching out and slowly pulling it towards him. “It wasn’t hard to find, once I knew enough about you to know where to look,” Illya says quietly as Napoleon flips the file open. “And, of course, once I knew to look in the first place. You grew up there. Father a janitor who left when you were young, mother a nurse. Joined the army at eighteen, did nearly two tours before supposedly being killed in an ambush. At least, that’s what your mother was told. She still receives monthly cheques from an offshore account that is disguised as compensation for gold star families.”

Napoleon swallows heavily as he thumbs through the file. “Illya-”

“The ambush wasn’t faked, but you had been planning an escape for a while, and it presented a good opportunity,” Illya continues. “You disappeared into the desert, and then a year or so later Prado appeared. The rest of it is fairly simple.”

“Well, you’ve certainly been thorough,” Napoleon mutters as he reads through the file. The paper is shaking in his grip as his hands tremble. “Pretty much everything is here.”

Illya reaches out and shuts the file. He pushes it further across the counter towards Napoleon. “Everything that I could find. That is the only hard copy. And this,” he says, pulling out a memory stick and setting it on top of the file, “is the only other copy. Everything I pulled has been wiped from the system. As far as Interpol are concerned, Prado died three days ago when Irma Caraceni shot him and he fell over the balcony into the sea. No body has turned up, but…” Illya trails off, and shrugs. “I’ve been told that with how strong the currents were that night, there isn’t much of a chance of ever finding it. Interpol declared your case closed yesterday.” He taps the file. “This is yours.”

Napoleon swallows. His fingers are trembling as he picks up the memory stick and turns it over. “What do you- why are you doing this?”

“Only Gaby and I know about who you were,” Illya says, trying to keep his voice steady as he watches Napoleon’s eyes widen. “And she will leave you alone, if I ask her to. You could go, now. Do whatever you want. As far as anyone is concerned, Prado is dead. Only Napoleon Solo exists now.”

“That- no, that doesn’t answer my question,” Napoleon says, his voice cracking slightly. “Why are you doing this? What are- I _lied_ to you, Illya. About everything, about my entire past, about who I _am_. Why are you doing this?”

“Because you never lied to me.”

Napoleon stares at him. “I’m sorry, did you miss the whole _I used to be an international art thief_ bit that I never mentioned until I fucked up and you worked it out? Because that’s a pretty big lie.”

“It took me two days to put all that together,” Illya says, nodding at the file. “It should have taken me weeks. But every time I found something about Prado, it would fit right in against the things you’ve told me, and it led me right to the next thing. Where you pulled off your first heist was where you told me you fell in love with art. Those jokes about getting drunk in Albania matches movement of sculptures from Greece. Stories about people you once knew and hated matches with reports of anonymous tip-offs on black market human trafficking. You never told me you were Prado, no. But you never actually lied to me about who you were.”

Napoleon drops his head into his hands. “Christ,” he mutters. “Jesus fucking Christ, Illya. I thought- I don’t know what I thought. I hoped you would come in here, I really did, but I didn’t actually expect…”

“I hoped you would be here when I came,” Illya says quietly. He sighs, running a hand over his face. He’s so tired. “So…that’s it. That’s all I have.”

“That’s all you- Illya, you just handed me everything someone would need to put me away for life, or press-gang me into service to whichever agency is the highest bidder, and told me that it’s the only copy. That it’s _mine_.” Napoleon looks up at him. His eyes are wet. As Illya watches, he swallows heavily. “Illya. This is _everything._ ”

“I just…” Illya sighs again. He drops into a nearby stool at the counter. “No strings attached. You can go, I’m not going to put conditions on this or make you stay, or, I don’t know, try to hold this over your head or-”

“Illya,” Napoleon says. He reaches out slowly, and his hand gently covers Illya’s. “The only way I would leave is if you told me to go. And only if I couldn’t argue you out of it first.”

“I wouldn’t,” Illya blurts out. “No, I- I want you to stay. Only if you want to, though, I’m not- this isn’t some sort of condition, I wouldn’t-”

“Illya,” Napoleon says fondly. “Breathe.”

Illya slumps forwards and gives into the urge to rest his head on the countertop. “It has been long few weeks.”

“I know,” Napoleon says quietly. His fingers ghost across the soft skin on the inside of Illya’s wrist. “I’m sorry for everything. No, don’t protest,” he says as Illya starts to raise his head, “I fucked up, and I am so sorry. And I’m sorry that the whole confrontation with Irma ended so…messily.”

“That wasn’t entirely your fault,” Illya mutters into the countertop. “Sorry I got you shot.”

“Ah, it was only a flesh wound,” Napoleon says. He’s drawing figures and patterns on the back of Illya’s hand now, his finger gently tracing over Illya’s skin. “The cold water was more of a shock. I didn’t plan that exit, by the way. I was going to be in and out before you even got there. I was going to…I was going to disappear. Lick my wounds in a hidey-hole somewhere, I guess, make sure you were okay and then just…disappear.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Illya says quietly. “I’m glad I saw you coming back up for air when I looked over the balcony.”

Napoleon hums. “I don’t want to stir up whatever fragile peace we have here,” he says, “but what made you change your mind? I honestly was pretty sure that as soon as you had fixed whatever had gotten you stabbed in a London back alley, I was going to be hunted down and arrested.”

Illya sits back up. “I don’t know what I was going to do,” he says. “I was…I was so angry. I was so _sick_ of being lied to.”

“I know, I know,” Napoleon says quickly, “and I am _so_ sorry, I never meant to treat you like that, especially not with everything that I know you’ve already been through, I’m so fucking sorry-”

“Cowboy,” Illya says, cutting him off, and Napoleon’s expression immediately softens at the nickname. “You…you lied to me, but you also didn’t. I _know_ you, Napoleon. I know that you love old country songs that you sing along to when you think nobody is listening. I know that you hate making ganache because you get impatient and can never stir it slowly enough to stop it seizing. I know that when you get tired the drawl in your accent comes through a little more, and you forget that you styled your hair in the morning and run your hands through it until it goes back to curls.” He turns his hand over, linking his fingers with Napoleon’s. “I know you, Cowboy.”

“I held a gun to Irma’s head after she shot you,” Illya says quietly. “I didn’t pull the trigger. And I realised that there is no point to all of this if…if I let what I was, what I was made into, have power over what I do now.” He huffs a quiet laugh. “It would be bit hypocritical of me to not give you that same chance.”

Napoleon lets out a shuddering breath. “I am so goddamn lucky to have met you, Peril,” he murmurs. “So goddamn lucky.” He shakes his head, wiping at his eyes with his free hand. “You know, I started this coffee shop just as a way to keep my hands busy. Keep the itch away. It’s a form of addiction, in a way. I won’t ever forget what it was like to do that, to _be_ that person. I started making coffees just to stop my hands shaking. And it was tough. It was really tough, for long enough that I thought it wouldn’t get better. And then you walked in the door and insulted my coffee.”

He looks up at Illya, a soft smile on his face. “You were…you’re the first friend I have made in a really long time. The first person I’ve really, honestly cared about for way too long. And it made this, it made all of this just…worth it.”

Illya reaches up and gently wipes away the tear away as it rolls down Napoleon’s cheek. “Don’t cry, Cowboy,” he says, which of course just makes more tears spill down Napoleon’s cheeks. “No, no, stop it,” Illya says. “Cowboy, please stop crying. I don’t know what to do. What do I do to make you stop crying?”

“Jesus, Peril,” Napoleon says, wiping at his face. “Come here, you idiot.”

He steps out from around the counter and wraps Illya up in an embrace. “God,” he breathes into the crook of Illya’s neck, his shoulders shaking as Illya carefully pulls him close and holds onto him. “I’m so fucking glad that I don’t have to pack everything up and disappear.”

Illya doesn’t mean to tighten his grip on Napoleon, but he can’t help himself. Napoleon laughs into his shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere,” he gets out, his voice thick. Illya can feel his hands gripping the back of his shirt, the warmth of his breath against Illya’s neck. “That is, unless Gaby kills me?”

Illya laughs, and the weight of a past that has haunted him for so long slowly lifts a little further. “She might,” he admits, pulling back so he can see Napoleon’s face. “But then she’ll have nobody to supply her developing caffeine addiction. Besides, I’ll protect you.”

“Well, then, I have nothing to worry about,” Napoleon says. He looks at Illya, hand gently cupping his jaw, a soft smile just curling the corner of his lips. “Nothing at all.”

“You know,” Illya says softly, “you did promise me free coffee for life if I guessed where you were from.”

Napoleon’s hands are framing his face, his thumb slowly brushing across the line of Illya’s jaw. “Did I, now?” he asks slyly. “Seems to me that you get free coffee here anyway. Almost like the owner of this place has had a massive crush on you since you first apologised for insulting his coffee and was trying desperately to flirt in a way that was obvious to you.”

Illya’s hands settle on Napoleon’s waist. He can feel the warmth of his body beneath his fingers. “And what if I want something else?” he asks.

Napoleon’s eyes flicker down to Illya’s lips. “I think you should go for it.”

Illya breathes in. “Fuck it.”

Illya pulls Napoleon in close and kisses him.

He keeps kissing him until he runs out of air, until he’s smiling too hard and has to pull away to try in vain to get back some measure of control. Napoleon is pressed up against him, hands framing his face, and there’s a blinding smile on his face as Illya looks at him.

Illya presses his forehead against Napoleon’s. “Hi, Cowboy,” he says softly.

Napoleon’s thumb smooths across the line of Illya’s lips. “Hey, Peril,” he whispers. He laughs, ducking his head to kiss Illya again. Illya can feel him smiling against his lips, the breathless laugh that slips out as he pulls back again so Illya can see the sheer joy on his face.

It’s stunning. Napoleon is stunning. Illya kisses him again, feels Napoleon shudder beneath his hands and the warmth of his body pressed up against him, and he has never felt safer.

They break apart after a few minutes, when Illya cannot keep in a yawn and has to turn away. Napoleon laughs, his hands smoothing down Illya’s arms. “Sorry, sorry, you must be exhausted after everything that has happened,” he says. “Is your side okay? You seemed fine in Italy, but-”

“I’m fine, Cowboy,” Illya says. “Just tired.” He kisses him again, a soft press of Napoleon’s lips against his just because he can. “Make me coffee?”

Napoleon laughs. “Oh, I see how this relationship is going to go,” he says. “You’ll have to let go of me if you want me to go make you a coffee, though.” He ducks back behind the counter to grab a mug. “What do you want? Just this once, I will break my own rules and I will make you a boring black coffee if you want.”

Illya pauses. He reaches out and tangles his fingers with Napoleon’s. “You know what, Cowboy? Make it something sweet. Surprise me.”

Napoleon turns to him, a look of pleased surprise on his face. “It would be my pleasure, Peril,” he says softly. “It would be my pleasure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all the people who have read this story, who have left kudos, who have commented and come back, chapter after chapter, to tell me how much they love this. Due to real life events that have recently occurred, I won't be able to answer comments on this chapter as quickly as normal, but know that I am absolutely reading every single one of them, and each one of them makes my day. And as promised, there is a sequel, that is currently written and finished. Due to aforementioned events, I can't give you a precise timeline for when the first chapter will be up- subscribe to the series if you want a notification when it does occur, or check back in within a week or so!
> 
> Thank you all so much.


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